


Bumfuck Nowhere

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic, M/M, Romance, Sort Of, countryside, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-11 04:58:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13517043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Porthos moves from London to English backend of nowhere (which for my readers is v different from USA or p much anywhere else middle of nowhere cus you can p much walk most places if you wanna walk for ages. Maybe there's more nowhere in like Scotland. I'm getting sidetracked from my genius summary hang on) and meets the others. Then there is a miraculous SURPRISE but that's probably not for a while. It's all very dramatic while also there's not much going on it's great.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> continuing about the middle of nowhere. I grew up kinda around there I lived in Shenmore that why Porthos goes there, it's really just a triangle with some houses and bad irrigation everything floods. I went over the handlebars of my bike in Shenmore, when my brother breaked suddenly in front of me and I had to too but my breaks were way more than I thought. Ah the memories. I also kind gave Porthos our house. carpet everywhere. It was truly weird. 
> 
> OH! also I've finished writing this, I just haven't edited/revised it all yet. I prob won't make you wait for long between chapters.
> 
> WARNINGS: there will be warnings on later chapters, in the endnotes. See THIS endnote if you need a heads up (I try my best with these things but I am not great at being a hundred percent on them, if you have triggers you want me to watch for or need to ask about please do, you can message me on tumblr im general-du-vallon.tumblr.com)

Bumfuck nowhere, November, and a taxi crawls through the village of Shenmore looking for one particular house. There are only about ten houses, it’s more a road than a village, a road and fields and a farm, another farm further out, then the big town with its hundred houses and its small corner shop. They came through there, the taxi driver kindly supplied the information that that’s the closest shop, it’s just about walking distance if you want a fuck of a walk on country lanes. Something like that his accent’s thick. He’d said it as he swung them past verges and through puddles at a good clip of sixty or so, demonstrating why it would be a fucking walk and just why the country lanes is a thing in relation to that. You might imagine leafy soft green, Real England, good turf and quiet, but you’d be wrong. It’s mud and fields too big for any hedgerow life and bad irrigation, flooding, cars bombing past, tractors creeping, over-loaded potato trucks wider than the road spilling. The taxi driver makes sounds that sound like ‘here we are’ or ‘this is it’ or ‘welcome home good sir’ or ‘I’m definitely cheating you, it doesn’t usually cost £40 from the station but I’m a farmer and you can’t understand me to communicate effectively mwa ha ha London idiot’. 

Porthos pays the forty quid and hauls his own suitcases from the boot and the driver roars off, sending a puddle at the bottom of the drive up and over Porthos’s smart shoes and trousers and cases. Porthos sits down on the drive in the rain in his good suit, deciding that, after all, this will do. Close enough. He should get under cover though he promised to call Flea when he got in and he should follow through on that. He pulls his luggage up the drive. The doors are open, the keys and things on the table in the small kitchen. There’s carpet in the kitchen. Porthos frowns at his shiny polished shoes in the beige worn carpet and considers just what sort of a person puts carpet in a kitchen. He opens a few doors and finds a toilet under the stairs, with no light, just a cubby hole with a loo. Not even a sink to wash your hands. Then again, it’s in the kitchen so there is a sink, on the other side of the dining table. There’s a tiny livingroom too. With wooden floors. A huge paisley sofa. An empty bookcase. Porthos drags his cases upstairs. 

There’s a bathroom (thank god it’s not just that understairs loo), carpeted like the kitchen. No shower just a bath. An airing cupboard. Porthos puts the heating on and goes to check the other door, hoping that the bedroom at least is carpeted. It is. The carpet is a startling orange. The bed is a big one at least, in cheap white chipboard, already made up. Porthos takes the sheets off and replaces them from his case. It’s not that he doesn’t trust the people he paid to set this place to rights but… he doesn’t really trust the people he paid to set this place to rights. He didn’t pay them all that much. He lies on his back on his bed and calls Flea, forgets to take his shoes off; he hangs up on Flea to take his shoes off. Then notices the desk. It’s big, old, with drawers, beautifully made. Porthos gets up off the bed and goes over in his wet socks, running a hand over it. The wood is smooth, looked after, cared for. Porthos lies down again and answers Flea’s calls. 

“Guess which rooms have carpet?” Porthos whispers. 

“The livingroom,” Flea whispers back. He baby’s asleep, then. 

“Nope. All the others, but not the livingroom.”

“Oh.”

“The bathroom.”

“Uh?”

“The kitchen.”

“Huh.”

“Don’t choose houses based on photos on the estate agent website.”

“You could have stayed here,” Flea whispers. “I don’t know what you’re doing, porky.”

“Flea?” Porthos says, forgetting to whisper (not that he needs to. She’s not his baby. Not any more). “Shut up.”

“Oh alright. Porthos, if you insist,” Flea whispers, bite to it, anger rising. Porthos waits, listening to her getting control of it and quieting herself, calming herself. He can hear her smiling, she probably went in to check on Rosie. On her baby. “She’s beautiful, Porthos. So healthy and strong and so so well. Thank you.”

Porthos keep quiet, keeps his peace. Or rather he lets her keep her peace and tries to remember that he’s finding his. He tells Flea about the rain and the puddles and the taxi driver slash farmer and she listens patiently, then says goodnight and that she loves him, that Rosie loves him, that they’re missing him already, when can they visit? He spins her a story about broken heating and hot water not working and she pretends to believe him. He has no one else to ring to say he arrived safe so he turns onto his side and goes to sleep, comforted by his own sheets and forgetting his good trousers, forgetting everything except the soft mattress and pillows, the heating warming the room. He could hear Rosie breathing, when Flea went in to look. 

He’s woken, improbably, by the sound of an aeroplane, when he opens his eyes it’s large, larger, coming right into his window, the bulk of it so loud the room shakes, coming closer and closer, the nose turning as if falling, spinning out of control, the window frame almost cracking. By the time he wakes up enough to panic and realise fully that it’s not a dream the plane has passed on, low but not crashing. Porthos remembers the mention of an SAS base and calms his heartbeat, laughing at himself. He’ll go buy curtains; and a rug for the livingroom maybe; and a rug for in here to hide some of the orange. He won’t be getting that in Madley he’ll have to go into Hereford for that. He sets off walking but gives up in Madley when he finds an unexpected pub. He supposes it will empty or the kind of local where everyone turns to stare and he’s not wrong and many heads turn. It’s not local though, unless ‘local’ is business attire and fancy. Then again: farmers. You never know with farmers. He heads for the bar and takes a stool, waiting to be served. 

“What?” he’s asked, a surly man coming strolling around the bar from a table by the window. Maybe a local place afterall. The many faces seem less now he’s got a seat and can survey as well as being surveyed There are only three tables occupied, maybe it’s just a fancy day. 

“Uh,” Porthos says. He forgot to look at what he wanted. “Do you suggest anything?”

The man just gives him an unimpressed look and crosses his arms over his chest. Porthos, thinking of all the looks he’s gotten in London, starts to laugh. That the man thinks bad temper will intimidate Porthos, who walks down the busy streets in London in a dress and heels and gets shoved and yelled at is so very funny. Until it’s not. Porthos finds himself wanting to weep. Not that he’d thought out here would be any different, nowhere is different. He’s wearing jeans and a hoody today. 

“Christ, just have a pint of cider,” the man says, eyes a bit wide. “No need to go off the rails, could’ve just said you didn’t know.”

A pint of something deep gold is set before him, sloshing over the edges a bit. Porthos gazes into it, watching the bubbles. He passes over a tenner without a thought and stares when he gets six fifty back from it. He gathers his money back up into his pocket and decides that, afterall, here isn’t so bad. A pint for under a fiver. He can live with that. And he can live with this surly little guy with his hair and his muscles and his eyes, over all a very nice aesthetic experience to go with the booze. He discovers quiet quickly (ok, two pints in) that cider in London might tend towards piss-weak, this is most certainly not piss. He squints at the lever the man’s been pulling to top him up and frowns. There’s no way cider can be sixty three percent. It must be sixteen or something. He puts his face closer and then pulls out his glasses. No. Sixty three. 

“Are you getting me drunk to seduce me and take me back to your farm and bed me with the pigs or something?” Porthos asks, idly, not sure he’d mind very much: the man’s been sauntering around behind the bar in a very nice manner. He turns to stare at Porthos again, arms lax by his sides. He’s wearing jeans. And a belt. And a t-shirt. And plaid. “Did you know that we’ve appropriated plaid from the lesbians? It’s ours now.”

“I’m not getting you drunk, or seducing you, I don’t have a farm. I do have a pig as it happens. I did not know that about plaid. Who are ‘we’?”

“Oh,” Porthos says, going hot and cold, realising he was about to out himself to a pub in bumfuck nowhere. Not literal bumfuck, sadly. 

“Jesus Christ,” the man says, covering his face. So maybe Porthos said that last bit outloud. “I’m gonna take you home, you’re pissed. On fucking scrumpy. Lightweight.”

“You gonna give me a lift on your tractor?” Porthos asks. 

“I haven’t got one.”

“Not even for your pig?” Porthos asks, getting up. There’s no one else in the pub now. The man pushes Porthos out, gently enough, and locks up behind him. 

“Not even for my pig. Jesus,” the man says. “Come on. Tell me where you live?”

“No,” Porthos says, carefully. “I will not.”

The man rolls his eyes and leads Porthos through a carpark, around the side, to the back where there’s another carpark and a single car. It’s not a tractor. I’s a Volvo. Porthos laughs at that, chuckling all the way until he’s belted in the passenger seat. 

“Your fault,” Porthos says. “Bloody cider.”

“Speaking of, get out,” the man says. Porthos is bewildered but he isn’t done talking, “get out and pee, I have seen too many people drunk on cider. Just piss in the hedge.”

Porthos does, it’s quite a relief to though he hadn’t noticed. He climbs back into the Volvo and falls asleep. He hears a frustrated ‘christ!’ before he’s out, but he doesn’t worry. It’s warm, he’s drunk, he’s comfortable now that he’s peed.


	2. Chapter 2

“Um,” Aramis says, when Athos turns up at the little church pushing in through the last wedding guests. “I just got your texts.”

“I brought him,” Athos says. “He’s still asleep. He snores.”

Aramis keeps his amusement inside. It isn’t the first time Athos has brought him one of his patrons, he seems to think Aramis will save them or something. Aramis might have thought so, too, twenty years ago. By now he has accepted that the most he’ll do is provide a corner to sleep it off, maybe food if whoever it is feels like accepting. He follows Athos out to the old Volvo. The man in the front is scrunched up at odd angles but looks comfortable and deeply asleep for all that. He and Athos manage to wake the bloke enough to have him stagger through the nave into Aramis’s office in the back. He doesn’t spend much time here, the congregation is all of two people who tend to travel to other churches (thankfully) . He does services here for weddings, funerals, baptisms, not much else. The office has a small sofa and the stranger curls up and goes back to sleep, as if he’d never woken. Aramis closes the door and goes back to talk to Athos but Athos is gone. Aramis finishes tidying up, his sexton coming in to help and to mutter about the kids who come and hang out in the graveyard. Aramis sends the sexton off and wanders around the little church, resting by the bible on the lectern, a proper old wood thing with a gold eagle and great wings. The pages of the book creak as he turns them, crisp and old and damaged by damp and warmth interchanging. He reads some of his favourite verse, which passes some time, answers a bunch of emails, refuses Facebook requests from students. He kneels to pray, for a while. He’s knelt there when the stranger comes quietly into the body of the church and takes a pew. 

“Where am I?” he asks. 

He sounds… not afraid. Resigned. Weary. Aramis gets off his knees, which crack and creak as he straightens. He works as chaplain at the sixth form in town and knows the look of this man, or likes to pretend he does anyway; he has a fantastic gaydar. That and a few hints in Athos’s increasingly garbled messages. He Knows the look and, since he’s lived here longer than in any big city for a good long time now, knows better than to name it aloud - he does his best but out here there’s a dearth of resources. He sits beside the stranger and stretches out his legs, relaxing. 

“My husband will expect me home at some point, I texted him but he is notorious for not charging his phone,” Aramis says. He was right; he gets the familiar lifting of the head, tiny relaxation across the shoulders, tightening in the face. “I’m a priest which makes it permissible for me to invite you for dinner.”

“Do you really have a husband or are you trying to put me at my ease?” The stranger says, sharper than Aramis expected. He shifts. 

“Ah. I do, as it happens,” Aramis says. “The phone thing is true too. Um. I’m used to working with teenagers. Do I apologize?”

“Not if you’re feeding me still. Porthos.”

“Mm?”

“My name,” Porthos says, shaking his head, holding out his hand. “Did I get drunk on cider and pass out in a car?”

“Yes.”

“I got into a stranger’s car and passed out?”

“Yes.”

“Christ.”

“That’s what Athos said. A lot. He texted me and left voice-messages, I was marrying someone.”

“Huh?”

“Officiating, not partaking,” Aramis says. “I mean my husband and I are polyamorous but mostly in theory these days, since his crush on Athos turned to hero-worship and then tempered to a more normal exasperated affection.”

“Athos is… the man who owns the pub?”

“He bartends there. He’s an academic, really,” Aramis says. “Pretends not to be but we all know he still publishes. Dinner?”

“Dinner being lunch, I suppose? Unless it’s country tradition to eat supper at noon.”

“It’s one thirty,” Aramis says. “And yes, if you wish: lunch.”

He takes Porthos out to the Landrover and Porthos makes a pleased sound of approval (Aramis understands: Athos told him about the tractor expectations. Landrovers are more expected than Volvos, he supposes). 

“Making a habit of getting into cars with strangers,” Porthos says. 

“You will if you live here long. Walk anywhere and someone will recognise you and offer you a lift. It’s bloody hard to be swept away by the beauty of nature when cars are stopping every few seconds to yell if you want a ride home,” Aramis says. He grins. “I once got a ride home on a quadbike, the guy left his son to finish getting the sheep in and rode me home. I tried to explain I was just wandering but apparently I was ‘wandering’ into the woods. Don’t walk in the woods around here, they might shoot you. Not on purpose, not on purpose, they’re aiming for the pheasants. Or the oil barrels.”

“Right,” Porthos says. “Pheasants.”

Aramis laughs, pleased by the bafflement. He loves the countryside he really does but it’s the weirdest fucking place he’s ever lived, he feels a duty to his parishioners to make them understand that. Which means: gently baffling them. 

“Oh, are you one of my parishioners actually?” Aramis asks, looking over. The man looks like he has a bad taste in his mouth and Aramis laughs again. “Don’t worry I’m not asking about your religion, just where you live. Not stalking you or asking an address! Just a village. Though, `that’s pretty much like telling me exactly where you live, just a warning. I will know the house. Not because I’m creepy! I don’t think I’m creepy.”

Aramis’s phone rings, thankfully. He ignores it but it goes to answer phone and they listen to d’Artagnan grumbling about him not being home and lunch being on the table, then laughing about being a housewife. He hangs up and Aramis smiles, happy. 

“Shenmore,” Porthos mutters. 

“You are in my parish then, good,” Aramis says. “Madley’s in my loop.”

d’Artagnan’s stood in the doorway in his pyjamas when they get there, smiling greeting. He welcomes Aramis with a kiss on the cheek and then turns to Porthos, smile widening and softening around the edges. 

“Hi, you must be the guy who wants to meet Aramis Junior,” d’Artagnan says. Aramis sighs. 

“Um,” Porthos says, eyes widening. “You have a kid? I like children I do I promise but I, I, I…”

“Ah,” d’Artagnan says, grimacing then trying to look apologetic, lips sucked in between his teeth. “Um. Athos’s pig, sorry.”

“What? Oh. The pig? It’s called Aramis?”

“Apparently I should be honoured,” Aramis says. “This is Porthos, d’Artagnan. You knew we were having guests and you stayed in your pyjamas?”

“They’re yoga pants,” Porthos says. 

“Exactly. Athos texted, babe. We haven’t a pig,” d’Artagnan says, leading Porthos inside. “We do have a cat who just had kittens, though, come on through. No kids. Aramis, set the table and go wash your hands, and don’t get distracted!”

Aramis, properly dismissed and assigned, goes to do as he’s told. d’Artagnan is bossy and kind and a perfect foil to Aramis’s style of running a parish. He also spent the last few years first persuading Aramis to do ‘food based things’ for the students at the sixth form, and then running said ‘food based things’. Usually just a meal in the first and last terms of the year, encouraging people to treat it as pastoral care and not anything religious. Aramis gets distracted thinking about how perfect a choice d’Artagnan was as husband. Not that Aramis wouldn’t have married him anyway, regardless of his suitability. He fell for d’Artagnan without any kind of help for it, ten years Aramis’s junior and with zero religious bones in his body and so so beautiful when he danced and so warm and so restless and so courageous, so ready for a fight and so ready to turn a fight into a sit down meal to feed the other party if they needed it. Which Aramis had. 

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan says, laughter at the edges of his exasperation, leaning in the bathroom doorway. He shakes his head. “Porthos is already started, the way he looks to be going we’d better get a move on if we want anything to eat.”

“He’s polite. He’ll save us things,” Aramis says. 

“Sure but will he eat all the little spinach parcels I got in town?”

Aramis dries his hands (wrinkly from being in the sink of water for a while) and hurries through. Their guests is actually polite enough to have waited, though his plate is full and a slice of cheese has a bite out of it. d’Artagnan probably told him to keep eating, going to fetch Aramis. Aramis sits and mutters a quick prayer under his breath. He feels Porthos’s eyes on him. 

“Do you want to say it with me?” Aramis offers. 

Porthos shakes his head, so they eat. d’Artagnan keeps the conversation going, telling Porthos about the area, the church, how to get to town, the busses, a better taxi company (apparently Porthos got ripped off last night). Aramis listens, enjoying watching d’Artagnan trying to set Porthos at his ease when Porthos picks up on every little trick d’Artagnan’s using before d’Artagnan gets it in place. d’Artagnan doesn’t really try to trick, it’s all very genuine and Porthos seems to take it as such. He’s pointedly and openly patient with d’Artagnan though and carefully gives nothing away, keeping a good layer of protection around himself, not letting d’Artagnan slip in through any little cracks. Aramis drives Porthos to just outside Shenmore, after, and finishes his afternoon up with a baptism and a service. Back home, later, sitting in the livingroom with d’Artagnan, he learns a little more. 

“He didn’t really tell me anything much. He’s from London, came down here to try and find something. He didn’t say what. Possibly kittens, he was very taken. Do you think he’d like to have one when they’re big enough?”

“He might not be around,” Aramis warns. His husband gets attached so easily. “I don’t think he’ll be coming to church.”

“I’m sure to bump into him at Athos’s,” d’Artagnan says, complacent. Aramis has his doubts about that too but he keeps them to himself; d’Artagnan has lost the shy worship of Athos but he’d still probably take issue with Aramis suggesting that Athos was careless not to warn about the strength of the scrumpy, especially when he was pulling the pints and the customer wasn’t paying attention to what it was. “Of course there was the reaction to kids.”

“Leave that alone, I think,” Aramis says. “Sometimes poking a sore spot will only get you punched.”

“That’s what my Mum used to say,” d’Artagnan says. “She’d say ‘Charlie one day someone will punch you and you will richly deserve it’.”

“You were a brat growing up,” Aramis says. “I’ve seen the photo albums and heard the stories that go with the pictures.”

“My Mum didn’t let me read ‘My Naughty Little Sister’ or ‘Just William’ books for ages because she thought I’d get ideas,” d’Artagnan says, proud as punch about being a tiny hoodlum. 

Aramis sprawls across d’Artagnan’s lap and loosens his dog collar, unbuttoning the top of his shirt, gazing up at his full-grown version of the ‘tiny hoodlum’. There are still marks of wildness; the long hair, somehow always wind-swept, tossed about, the bright eyes, the spark of life in all his movements as if he’s about to hop up and go on an adventure. Aramis reaches up and d’Artagnan takes his hand, pressing a kiss to the palm, the knuckles, eyes on Aramis, fixed. Aramis loses the collar: he’s not ashamed, God can watch him any time He likes, but Aramis isn’t going to encourage the voyeurism. This is between him and his boy.


	3. Chapter 3

Porthos spends the next day in the garden, a long lawn lined with flower beds of weedy earth. He kneels and pulls everything up and digs it over. At one point he unearths a lot of purple potatoes and crows with delight, scrambling to gather them up; big and richly coloured. They make him think of Rosie, of sitting up at the allotment with her, exhausted from work and visiting with Flea and having Rosie on his own day in day out and trying to balance the shit storm. She’d loved it up there and had made the happiest little noises at the things they grew, repeating the sounds he made. Her first word was bean, so he’d called her his little bean. They’d grown flowers, too, and as Rosie grew up a bit she’d bring them to Flea, nasturtiums and sweet peas and irises. She’d loved the rhubarb and blackberries, though he’d been careful to google everything he gave her and rhubarb had confused him so she only got a little now and then. Porthos sits with his purple potatoes in his lap, head bent, and lets himself grieve.

The day after that he sits at the big desk, opening the draws and filling them with the stationary from home. He sets up his laptop and his files, his work. He should get internet, he was warned that it might be slow here but he should at least set it up. He puts his laptop back into the bag and heads out. d’Artagnan had told him about a bus stop so he heads for it and sits on the verge for an hour waiting. Eventually a bus comes and he hops on, gets his ticket and sits. They go a long, winding way and Porthos is left to think about things. d’Artagnan had not been what he expected from a priest’s wife, but then, he was after all the husband of a gay priest so the expectations around a priest’s wife probably wouldn’t have much to do with him. He’d been kind and gentle and the kittens had been wonderful. Porthos contemplates getting one for Rosie if she comes visiting. Not yet, not yet. A little while to let himself get used to not having her, then he will invite them. He wanders around Hereford until he finds a Cafe Nero and spends the day catching up on work and setting up internet for home. 

It takes a week for the internet to come. In that week Porthos takes the bus every day (he gets better at predicting it. There is a timetable but the first he follows it he still waits an hour and a half and the second time he misses it), sits in Nero, does his work, talks to Flea on chat, and scrolls through blogs and tumblrs that he follows. He forgets his glasses one day and gets a headache so he gives up on work and wanders around the city, unimpressed for the most part. He ends up in the Cathedral, the big empty quiet of it soothing. He sits for a while but a volunteer comes and talks to him about history and takes him to show him the Mappa Mundi (taking four pounds entry fee along the way). Porthos is unsure of whether he appreciates this until he sees the map, then he does. It’s old and religious but kind of awesome; velum and neatly drawn angels around the edge and Jerusalem in the middle. It is, Porthos thinks, just like Western Christianity to turn Africa into dangerous and monstrous and make Jerusalem theirs and turn the entire world into their spiritual journey. He loves the map anyway and it makes him think of the priest Aramis and he chuckles to himself. 

Once the internet arrives Porthos sticks to home for a week, working from his desk. He loves the desk and finds himself trying to continue its previous owner’s care taking, keeping it clean and googling ‘how to care for nice wood’. He also orders rugs and curtains from Ikea to be delivered. He takes walks and does some gardening but after six days of not really seeing another person (the priest was right; on his walks he has so far been offered a lift three times) he’s going a little stir crazy. He goes into Hereford and works at Nero, pops into the Cathedral, but Nero is busy and the volunteer is different and ignores him. He gets the bus home and then gives in and walks to Madley, trying out the pub again. This time it does look like the locals are in, and every single head turns in hostile welcome when he steps inside. Porthos clears his throat and inches his way to the bar, sliding onto a stool. A gangly teenager comes over to serve him, handing over the half measure of whiskey Porthos requests without making conversation. Porthos brings out his phone and texts Flea for a while, nursing his whiskey, trying to ignore the discomfort of being stared at. Someone sits beside him. 

“Odd weather this week, hardly any rain,” the stranger says, in the same accent as the taxi driver. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, noncommittally.

“You get weather like this up in London?” The stranger asks. 

“No, Tom, up in London it’s always sunny,” comes an amused, soft voice from a table in the corner. 

“I have a cousin in London, do you know him?” ‘Tom’ says. 

“I don’t think so,” Porthos says. 

“His name’s Josh, he died in 1975,” Tom says. 

“He wasn’t born in 1975. Aramis says he hasn’t seen you at church in a while,” d’Artagnan says, getting up from his shadowy table and revealing himself, coming over to the bar with an empty pint glass. 

“Do you want another, sir?” the bartender asks. 

“No thanks Jeremy,” d’Artagnan says. “Good going on that essay you handed in Friday, I just got done marking it, excellent work.”

“Thanks sir. What about you?” Jeremy asks Porthos. 

“I’ll have another,” Tom says. He looks like he’s had enough, to Porthos, and Jeremy seems like he might think so too, shifting and flushing. 

“Have you been avoiding church, Tom?” d’Artagnan asks, turning his back on Porthos and talking earnestly and softly. 

“I’ll get the tab another day,” Tom says, and meanders out, talking to himself. d’Artagnan turns to Porthos, smiling. 

“Odd bloke but nothing wrong with him in the world,” d’Artagnan says. “I didn’t expect to bump into you here, I had given up hope of you ever wandering back in.”

“I’m good for a drink,” Porthos tells Jeremy, who’s still hovering. Porthos dumps a couple of coins in the tip jar and Jeremy grins, bustling back down the bar. d’Artagnan giggles. 

“Porthos,” he says, with earnest softness. “Did you know cousin Josh?”

Porthos snorts and finishes his whiskey. He considers getting up and leaving but he had been after company and he’s not sure why he’s feeling hostile anyway. His stomach rumbles, which answers that question. 

“Do they do anything to eat in this place?” Porthos mutters. 

“Yes!” d’Artagnan says, eagerly

He goes up the bar, getting a tatty menu and going through each item giving an enthusiastic review. Porthos gets a burger and chips and suggests they go to d’Artagnan’s table. Hopefully people will stop staring. They don’t, but Porthos now has his back to the wall not the room and he can glower back; that sends some eyes skittering away. d’Artagnan talks about the kittens until Porthos’s food comes, then he steals chips and talks with his mouth full, gesturing large, telling Porthos about the food here again and then the way Aramis cooks chips (apparently much better). Porthos eats and feels much better as he does, the world sitting well with him instead of annoying him. 

“They’ll stop watching after a bit,” d’Artagnan says, quietly, giving Porthos a compassionate look. “Well they’ll stop watching quite so obviously anyway. They just want to know who you are where you come from who your family is whether you’re staying if you’re one of the hippies from ‘that school’ whether you’re going to buy land whether you’re going to buy land they farm whether you’re going to buy their land what your religion is and if you eat gluten.”

“Huh?”

“They don’t trust the gluten frees,” d’Artagnan says, leaning close. 

“Oh,” Porthos says, looking furtively around. 

He does eat gluten but Flea doesn’t. He wonders if that might count against him in this land of farmers. Maybe it brings down the price of wheat or something. d’Artagnan gives a significant nod. Porthos realises how ridiculous that is and straightens up, laughing, throwing a chip at d’Artagnan’s head. d’Artagnan catches it and eating it, sitting back, grinning. The other people have mostly looked away now, uninterested in Porthos as an attachment to d’Artagnan. They glance up when the door opens again but barely, already looking away when Athos saunters in. Athos sweeps the room with a look and locates d’Artagnan. He stops at the bar to talk to Jeremy then comes over, glaring at d’Artagnan. 

“Hello Athos,” d’Artagnan says, cheerfully. “Look who wandered in.”

“Hi,” Porthos says, finishing his burger and the last of his chips. “That was good food.”

“Yes,” Athos agrees. 

“Are you working?” d’Artagnan asks.

“No,” Athos says.

“Join us,” d’Artagnan says. “But get us drinks first, Porthos is drinking whiskey.”

Athos gets another whiskey, a pint for d’Artagnan, and a pink thing with an umbrella. Porthos watches him sip in but Athos just raises an eyebrow in elegant question. Porthos shrugs and sips his manly whiskey, jealous of the pink.

“Do you want one?” Athos asks. 

“Just the pink,” Porthos admits, wrinkling his nose. Athos’s lips twitch up in an actual honest to god smile. It’s … very hot. Porthos wants to lick his smile. “Um.”

“You may have the umbrella,” Athos pronounces, taking the umbrella from his glass and setting it in Porthos’s whiskey; the umbrella is pink too. 

“I should be heading home,” d’Artagnan says. “Gosh look at the time. I’ll leave you to finish my pint Ath. Come for dinner, both of you.”

“Bye,” Athos says. 

“Bye,” Porthos says. 

Neither of them pay much attention as d’Artagnan leaves but once he’s gone Athos’s lips twitch again and he moves into d’Artagnan’s seat, making a face at the pint. 

“Do you drink lager? No?” Athos says, then shrugs and chugs it. Porthos watches wide-eyed. “Ahh. He’s gone home to gossip about us, he’ll tell Aramis what a good match maker he is.”

“Match maker?”

“Yes. He thinks we’re going to have sex later,” Athos says. “We’re not.”

“Ok,” Porthos says, a little disappointed. “I wouldn’t mind, even with the gossip.”

“I would.”

“Oh.”

“I am being rude. I revel in such things but I can see it is making you dispirited. I don’t have brief unencumbered sex it does not suit my… temperament.”

“Yeah, not melancholy enough,” Porthos teases and Athos takes his umbrella back. 

“For that, I’ll keep this,” Athos says.

He tucks it behind his ear and Porthos’s indignation melts away. He can’t quite keep away from the pub, after that, and once he discovers they have free Wi-Fi AND do coffee AND some teas (well they don’t actually do teas but Athos Does Tea and always has some nice ones about his person and lets Porthos have some sometimes), he’s lost. He spends long glorious days tucked away in the warmth doing his work, idling away time as Athos works. He spends glorious hours talking to Athos on his breaks in quiet moments when Athos gets off his shift or before it starts. They don’t talk about much; Athos doesn’t mention his writing or anything about academia and he never asks much about Porthos, his work, his life in London, anything. They talk about TV and films and books they’ve read, things they’ve seen, stuff on the radio, music, bollocks. Three weeks pass like this and Porthos thinks he might be in heaven. It’s heady and wonderful and it all comes from the moment of tucking an umbrella behind an ear; playful, colourful. Promising.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING AT END

Athos watches over Porthos. That’s what he thinks of when he does this; he feels such a strong sense of wanting to protect Porthos. To care for him and cherish him. A real instinct to reach out and be met and to make sure he’s safe and well. Porthos is sat in his usual corner, typing away at whatever it is he types away at. Athos had thought a writer at first but he’s heard Porthos take phonecalls sometimes and he’s definitely not a writer. Though, he does likes to tell Athos stories, far fetched things that must be almost entirely untrue and little things that sound like he’s told them before. Athos watches over him when he comes here to do his work, watches out for him and scowls at people. No one notices; he tends to scowl anyway. Athos wipes his hands, absent mindedly leaves Jeremy a few instructions, and goes to touch Porthos’s shoulder, standing by him, close enough to feel him but far enough not to crowd.    
  
“Mm?” Porthos says, not looking up. He frowns at the screen and then thunks his hand down on the table. “Fuck. Are you on break or done?”   
  
“Done,” Athos says.    
  
“If you want to wait around I’ll get a drink in a bit?” Porthos offers, rubbing his face, his glasses falling off.    
  
“All ok?”   
  
“No, but boring work stuff,” Porthos says, picking up his glasses and looking at Athos in question.    
  
“I’ll wait,” Athos says.    
  
He goes to get his book and a cup of tea and sits opposite Porthos. He doesn’t read, he opens his book and then watches Porthos, curiosity making him nosy. He doesn’t know how to tell Porthos he cares or to ask what he does or to reach out or to take care of him. Offering to take care of a grown up seems patronising. Porthos peers at the screen clicks the mouse and taps the keys, and his mouth moves when he reads which is endearing. Athos looks away at his book for a while to stop himself from thinking about Porthos’s mouth. When he looks up Porthos is shutting his laptop with a deep, full-bodied sigh.    
  
“Sorted?” Athos asks, and Porthos laughs.    
  
“Not even close,” Porthos says. “Don’t worry I don’t do anything important. I usually work as a consult for customer engagement via social media and interactive interfaces. This job happens to be for a very frustrating client and they want impossible things and keep messing with my coding.”   
  
“Oh,” Athos says, not sure he has any more idea what Porthos does for a living. “That sounds…”   
  
“Yeah, it’s frustrating,” Porthos says. “I don’t mind them playing about with the site, especially when it’s not one I set up, but when I’m trying to sort out interfaces that are user friendly and their tech nerd intern who’s still at school ‘has a go’ at it, it’s very annoying. Especially when she misses the point and fucks it up. I’m not sure it was even an accident, they want something that gathers data and tracks customers so they know if it’s being used by returning or first time customers, I don’t think their intern approves.”   
  
“I do not approve either,” Athos says, though he doesn’t really care as long as he’s not being made to engage in whatever this interface is.    
  
“Nor do I particularly but it’s not unethical, it says it in big letters, not even t&cs small print. Mostly it’s about demographics of shoppers so it’s all anonymous and isn’t stuff like names addresses facebooks etc,” Porthos says. “It’s annoying! I wanted info on the demographics too, I use data like that in order to tailor things.”   
  
“What is the thingy?” Athos says. “Engagement… interface that’s stealing all our souls?”   
  
“It’s called ‘the soul extractor extraordinair’ or SEE, it was designed by yours truly in collaboration with mr ell ucifer,” Porthos says, and changes the subject.    
  
The next day Athos brings his own laptop. He sits with Porthos at their table, which is his but has kind of become theirs because Porthos sits there so often (Athos is pretty sure he doesn’t know that it’s Athos’s table or that Athos thinks of it as theirs or that Athos thinks of them as a ‘them’. Athos is sure that to Porthos he’s just found a nice place to work and a friendly face. Athos does not know how to fix this). It’s warm, in Porthos’s company. Athos is peer reviewing a bunch of articles for the journal Constance started about six years ago, publishing new queer studies stuff focussed on literature and intersectionality. This article is not making Atos smile. It’s frustrating because the idea and the writing is good but the author just hasn’t done the reading, so he’s missing out huge swathes of stuff that’s been written in Transgender Studies recently. Not that Transgender Studies is even a thing in the UK, really, so that is kind of acceptable but also not acceptable at all as it’s Athos’s favourite of his three disciplines and he wants better work done on it.    
  
“You look about as frustrated as I did yesterday,” Porthos mutters, getting up.    
  
“Are you off?” Athos asks, checking the time - it’s only four.    
  
“Yeah, I have a phonecall,” Porthos says.    
  
Athos nods: Porthos has phonecalls. Porthos packs up and hesitates, frowning down at Athos. Athos looks up at him, questioningly. This is one of those moments where he just wants to, to, hug Porthos or touch his arm or something reassuring, something warm and gentle like d’Artagnan or Aramis would do easily. To make Porthos feel safe and important. Instead Athos just raises a single eyebrow slowly. It makes Porthos laugh and he reaches out without a though, ruffling Athos’s hair then holding his hands up in apology when Athos automatically pulls away.    
  
“Yeah, phonecall,” Porthos says. “My… my friend. Her daughter.”   
  
Porthos nods and squeezes Athos’s shoulder. Athos gets the feeling that Porthos is wanting to be reassured, too, but he can’t think of the right things to do. Instead he looks down at the table, frozen, unable to get around himself in order to do that. He looks up quickly as Porthos is leaving.    
  
“Come visit my pig,” he blurts, the only thing that he can get out. “I called her Aramis. She is going to have piglets apparently and I have no idea how, it’s like a Christmas miracle. I named her well.”   
  
“Aramis accidentally had piglets? The priest?” Porthos says.    
  
“This is the countryside. Farmers, remember,” Athos says, voice low so as not to carry to all the farmers around them in the empty pub. Only Jamie’s here, sitting on the bar eating crisps and messing about on his phone.    
  
Porthos gives Athos the finger and leaves, laptop bag slung over his shoulder. Athos feels like that went well. He can feed Porthos tomorrow, make sure he’s eating enough, he never seems to eat at the pub and he’s here a lot and he tells Athos about his breakfast sometimes and it doesn’t seem to be enough. He can also maybe sit Porthos down and bring him tea, and maybe make sure he doesn’t work every hour of every day, and maybe he can find some episodes of a show to watch together, and maybe he can… maybe he could cuddle on the sofa. Just a little bit. Athos hums happily and gets back to his article, enjoying it more with all those things in mind.    
  
Porthos does not come to see the pig, he does not show up at the pub, he does not text or call. He doesn’t have Athos’s number and Athos doesn’t have his. Athos works his shift, sends off the two articles he’s peer-reviewed, edits one he’s written, goes home to Skype in to do a meeting with the Phd student whose supervision team he’s on, and then goes back to the pub to drink too much whiskey. He falls asleep on the bar, incredibly drunk, and wakes up at Aramis and d’Artagnan’s drooling on the sofa in their livingroom. Their cat has curled up in the space between his knees and stomach and brought all her kittens too like it’s a warm safe place. Athos wants a nice warm safe place like that to curl up. Instead he gets Aramis coming in to check on him and asking worried gentle questions about why he got so drunk.    
  
“I didn’t  _ get  _ drunk,” Athos says, carefully enunciating. “That suggests I was drunk. In fact, I  _ am  _ drunk.”   
  
“That is not reassuring,” Aramis says, but he’s smiling so it must have been at least a little reassuring.    
  
Athos doesn’t know how to tell Aramis that he got stood up on a pig-visiting not-date with the man who doesn’t even know they’re friends, probably, let alone that Athos is harbouring soft feelings of stupidity for him. Care-taking feelings. Warm feelings. Feelings of wanting to hold him. Athos asks Aramis if he has any whiskey and gets an incredibly unimpressed look in return. Aramis takes the cats away in punishment. Also because it’s dinner time and he wants Athos to eat but definitely in punishment. Athos eats d’Artagnan’s home-cooked pie and chips (‘not as good as Aramis’s, but apparently someone’s baptism is more important than chips, though by whose reckoning I don’t know’), drinks the masses of water set censorily before him, and the glass of wine that d’Artagnan gives him with a wink when Aramis is distracted by something over by the pantry. Aramis comes wandering back, expression odd.    
  
“I think it’s snowing,” he says.    
  
They go to look out and sure enough, snow is coming down in wet little flurries, lit up by the house lights. It’s still half-raining, it’ll probably stop soon. Athos sits back down and tops up his wine glass while d’Artagnan and Aramis gets excited and hug each other and make plans for building snowmen.    
  
“Wine on top of whiskey will give you a headache from hell,” Aramis says, sitting beside Athos and eating again. “It’s just raining now, no snowmen.”   
  
“Maybe in hell I will meet the Mr Ell Ucifer that Porthos works with,” Athos mutters, miserably.    
  
“Ah,” Aramis says, as if understanding has just dawned over a big hill of confusion.    
  
“Not ‘ah’,” Athos says, glaring.    
  
“Ok,” Aramis says, grinning.    
  
“No,” Athos says.    
  
“Did you actually tell him anything, or did you do your usual thing of keeping every single thing inside and just hoping for the best?” Aramis says.    
  
“Oh no. I left Aramis Jr outside,” Athos realises, horror sending up jerking up to his feet. “She’ll be really cold. Her babies.”   
  
“What kind of pig has bloody piglets in bloody December?” d’Artagnan grumbles getting up in a rush to grab his keys. “What kind of Aramis owner leaves their Aramis out in the rain?” then he grins and calls back to the kitchen. “I’d never leave you in the rain, babe!”   
  
“Thanks!” Aramis calls back, laughing.    
  
“Now that you’ve had your little joke can we go get my pig out of the rain?” Athos snaps.    
  
d’Artagnan agrees good naturedly and shoves on wellies, leading Aramis out to the Landrover.    
  
“Where’s my car?” Athos asks.    
  
“Pub. We brought you back in this. I’m taking you home in this. You’re not driving,” d’Artagnan says, and forestalls any argument by putting on the radio.    
  
“Anyway Aramis isn’t having babies in December, she’s just pregnant in December,” Athos mutters, more to himself than to d’Artagnan who is singing alone to the radio. “She’s having babies in early February, all quite in order and traditional.”   
  
“Yep. Traditional season for virgin pig births,” d’Artagnan agrees, laughing happily.    
  
Athos does not talk to d’Artagnan after that. d’Artagnan does at least help him with getting Aramis inside her little barn, fed and with nice warm hay and some water. She is quite happy in the rain, she was sheltering fine under a tree. Athos shuts the barn carefully up and goes back to the house, d’Artagnan trailing after him hands in pockets.    
  
“Haven’t you got to get back?” Athos asks as d’Artagnan follows him in and removes his wellies.    
  
“Nope,” d’Artagnan says. “Aramis won’t mind if I stay a bit, make sure you don’t drown yourself in alcohol.”   
  
“Not going to drown myself,” Athos says. “Just going to get good and drunk.”   
  
“Yeah,” d’Artagnan says, too grim and understanding for Athos’s peace of mind. “Come on Athos, we’ve known you years now, let us help.”   
  
“Fine. You can put the heat on and find batteries for the TV remote. I will get the whiskey.”   
  
Athos shuts his eyes and when he opens them d’Artagnan has gone off to do that. He seems to take Athos’s words as an invitation to stay and keep Athos company and Athos is so incredibly grateful for that, he cries. About Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries not about d’Artagnan staying to keep him company. Even with d’Artagnan there though the loneliness creeps in and his mind starts to twist itself up in knots until he can only curl up with his whiskey. Eventually he’s drunk enough to fall asleep.    
  
He wakes up in bed and, as Aramis predicted, has the headache from hell. To make matters worse his phone is ringing shrilly in his ear, tucked under his pillow with him. Like he wants the monstrous thing at all let alone that close. It all stinks of d’Artagnan taking care of him, which is annoying. d’Artagnan does it all so easily, knows what Athos needs or what at least might help a bit. Not the phone, though, that is not helpful. Athos gets it out and assumes that it’s there in order that Aramis and d’Artagnan can reach him.    
  
“What? I answered. You stuck it right by ear you arsehole,” Athos says not disguising his foul mood. His head throbs.    
  
“It’s Porthos?” the phone says, uncertain and amused at once.    
  
“Fuck.”   
  
“I got your number from the bar person at the pub, he said he shouldn’t give it out without asking you but you never had it on or with you so he couldn’t see the harm,” Porthos says.    
  
“Oh.”   
  
“Do you want to organise seeing your pig?” Porthos says. “Also are you actually inviting me just to look at a pig or do I get tea or something as well? Should I bring cookies?”   
  
The words ring in Athos’s head at a tinny wine, making him dizzy with stupidity. All that sadness yesterday and it was all over nothing. Porthos had just been sensible and assumed a visit like that needed planning, not just… whatever it was Athos expected. Athos is glad Porthos is on the other end of the phone and can’t see his eyes welling up.    
  
“Athos?” Porthos says. “Sorry the signal’s shit here, I think you dropped out.”   
  
“Yeah,” Athos whispers, his voice coming wavering and horribly obvious that he’s crying. He just got it all wrong, again, and spent a whole day being worried and anxious over nothing.    
  
“I think there’s something wrong with the phone signal, I’ll call you back ok? Walk up a hill or something,” Porthos says. “I mean I will, I’m not ordering you to walk up a hill. Though it might just as much be your signal. Ok he can’t even hear you Porthos shut up.”   
  
Porthos hangs up and Athos curls up to get his crying done before Porthos rings back, trying to be a normal person when he answers, trying for a bright, loud, clear ‘hello, Porthos!’.    
  
“Uh, hi,” Porthos says. “Should I bring cookies? Did you have a time or day in mind?”   
  
“No no, entirely up to you,” Athos says. “I can buy some biscuits don’t worry about it I might even have some. I have tea at least.”   
  
“Ok,” Porthos says. “Um, look give me some kind of timeline. Today? Next week? A month from now? I have no idea how you like to organise things.”   
  
“Whatever suits,” Athos says. Cheerfully. Porthos lets out an exasperated breath. “I mean! Um! I mean…” Athos’s breath catches on panic, trying to work out what he did mean and what he actually wants. “I don’t… I could.”   
  
“Are you checking a diary or something?” Porthos asks.    
  
Athos laughs a bit hysterically, unsure if Porthos is being kind or obtuse or what.    
  
“I’m having a panic attack,” Athos says, laughing harder.    
  
He gasps for breath and hears a long drawn out ‘ohhh’ from the phone. Then quiet, just Porthos breathing. Porthos starts to hum, it sounds like he’s walking. He seems to be in no hurry to either talk or hang up. Athos isn’t sure if that’s nice or awful, but he takes the time and pulls himself together a bit, shutting his eyes and pushing the chaos away for the moment. He can sort all that out later. The goal now is to answer Porthos’s question. Right. Athos can do that. He breathes.    
  
“What was the question?” he asks. Porthos huffs out a laugh.    
  
“Never mind, I gave up on getting an answer, I’m walking over now. I’m bringing cookies, I was snacking on them and brought them along for walking up the hill to find signal,” Porthos says. “Wait. Was there really anything wrong with the signal or were you just pulling a fast one?”   
  
“You’re the one who said about signal,” Athos says. “Now?”   
  
“I can just as easy go home again,” Porthos says, sounding entirely uncaring one way or another. Athos isn’t sure that is a good thing either, he wants Porthos to be invested in coming to see him.    
  
“No come over,” Athos says, then, mulishly, “might as well.”   
  
Like he doesn’t care either. Porthos says ‘great’ and ‘see you soon’ and ‘toodle pip’ and then he’s gone. Athos sits for a while, reeling all his mess and chaos back inside. He remember that he needs to shower and get dressed and should probably at least open the barn so Aramis Jr can get out if she wants and jumps out. His head throbs, reminding him of Everything. He still showers.    


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Athos is A MESS, he has a panic attack and drinks too much and cries a lot.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit longer, see end for WARNINGS (i'm not sure how to word warnings so I just say what happens which is spoilers)

Porthos rings Athos back at once, realising he doesn’t have an address and is actually walking to the pub, but Athos doesn’t answer. Porthos shrugs and decides to walk to the pub and ask whoever’s there, hoping it’s open on a Saturday at noon. Luckily for him someone drives past and stops, backing up, window coming down. Porthos knows the signs - either they want directions or he’s about to be offered a lift. It’s the latter and he hops into the front. 

“You’re one of Aramis’s parishioners,” the driver says, checking her mirrors carefully before pulling off in a roar of splashing puddles and revving engine, already going fifty odd mph. 

“Yeah, sure,” Porthos says. 

“I’ve seen you around. Where can I drop you?”

“Pub, Athos’s, or a bus stop, whatever’s on your way.”

“Athos de la Fere? He’s up at the big house isn’t he? I’ve been up there to collect donations before, I can take you there it’s not far. I’m Geanette.”

“Nice to meet you,” Porthos says, breathless from the speed and terror. 

“I teach up at the Steiner School, you’ve probably heard of us. An academy now, of course, but there you go, progress comes eventually,” she says. 

She chats the whole way there. Non-stop. Porthos likes talking to people and listening but the constant barrage is neither conversation nor anything enjoyable to listen to. Porthos gets out of the car and looks around. There’s a gate, a high hedge, the drive where he’s standing. The car roars back off up the lane backwards, a long single-lane driveway that’s barely got a surface. The car bounces jauntily. Porthos raises a hand in farewell and turns to the gate. There’s a path up to a front door, a fence - a tiny space of grass and flower-beds. Porthos taps the knocker gently and waits. And waits. Eventually Athos answers, cheeks flushed pink, in a pair of sweats and a huge jumper. He looks warm and soft and Porthos just restrains himself from embracing him; he hadn’t seemed the type and it isn’t quite time to ask probably. 

“Can I hug you?” Porthos asks. So much for that. “I brought cookies.”

“Um, ok, I guess,” Athos says, tugging the sleeves of his jumper over his hands and looking up at Porthos, wary. His eyes are pink as well as his cheeks. 

Porthos folds Athos into his arms. His jumper is soft, he is soft. Porthos holds him close and Athos is still for a time then tentatively puts his arms around Porthos. Porthos decides not to pull away - he doesn’t want to. He indicates gently that Athos can, making sure he’s not trapping him into an eternal hug. Athos pulls away a tiny bit only so he can better get his arms around Porthos, so he can rub over his back and shoulders. Porthos’s eyes fall shut and tears spill over his cheeks, the warmth and comfort so unlooked-for that it catches him entirely off guard. He doesn’t mind, he’s not ashamed of crying. He Facetimed Flea yesterday and saw Rosie for the first time in a month and she was bigger. She’d been so shy at first but had quickly realised who he was and remembered him and been so happy and pleased and chattered to him, then she’d been upset because she couldn’t get to him and when he said goodbye she’d started screaming and Flea had cried and asked Porthos to not call again. She’d been upset too and stressed and hadn’t been very gentle with the request. He presses closer to Athos, trying to leech all the warmth and comfort that he can get up and into himself. 

“Do you want me to let go?” Athos asks. 

“No,” Porthos admits, voice unsteady. 

“Oh ok. I thought I was probably holding on too long.”

“Don’t give a fuck,” Porthos says. “Don’t let go of me, please.”

“I won’t,” Athos says, simply, as if he had just been waiting for such a request. 

They stand like that for a really long time. Porthos’s head rests against Athos’s shoulder and his feet start to tingle from standing still so long but he doesn’t try to move. Athos is taller than he seems, tall enough for Porthos to sink into, and strong. He holds Porthos tight and holds him steady and just holds him. Porthos doesn’t want to deal with explanations or awkwardness or anything real or of the world so he just stays hidden in Athos’s jumper, letting everything fall away except for the sensation of being held. Eventually of course they do have to break apart. Athos laughs, rubbing his own face as if he’d been crying too, and Porthos laughs in return, sniffing and pressing his coat to his eyes. 

“Come inside,” Athos says. “Tea. And tissues.”

“Oh god,” Porthos says, trailing after him into the hallway of the house. “What a way to say hello.”

“It was nice it was fine,” Athos says, wincing and pulling his jumper sleeves again. “Um, sorry. I haven’t really… in um… been a while.”

“Me too,” Porthos says. Then thinks of Rosie. “Sort of.”

“Tea,” Athos says again, turning, then turning back. “Shoes off. Um, there are hooks for coats.”

Athos indicates vaguely and then turns abruptly and leaves. Porthos finds a door with hooks on the back, boots and wellies in neat rows beyond, another door. He hangs up his coat and puts his shoes in too and then follows Athos down the hall through a half-open door. There’s a kitchen, big and warm, a big dining table in the middle, the stove and stuff at one end and a sofa and armchair at the other. Athos indicates the sofa and chair so Porthos goes to sit there, there’s a box of tissue on the little table and Porthos blows his nose and wipes his eyes while Athos pretends distraction. He waits for Porthos to get himself sorted before bringing a pot of tea and two mugs over and taking a seat. 

“It’s Jasmine, I hope that’s ok,” Athos says. “I didn’t ask, but I have lots of teas. You liked this one before? I can make a different one.”

“It’s nice,” Porthos says, not remembering which one Jasmine was. He hasn’t disliked anything Athos has given him yet. He’s not a tea pleb but it was more Flea’s thing than his. “I apologise for weeping on your shoulder.”

“I thought… oh,” Athos says, pouring out the tea. He settles, steadies, and the uncertain nervousness falls away from him. He sits back with his mug and smiles at Porthos. “I thought it was I crying on you.”

“I guess it was both of us,” Porthos says. 

“Reciprocal embarrassing crying and clinging,” Athos says. “I’ll tell if you do.”

Porthos laughs about that, it reminds him of being six and playing that game with Charon and Flea; I’ll show if you do. Examining each other’s genitals and bodies to see who got what, examining how white and pale Flea’s skin was, how blond her hair. They’d quickly got distracted and jumped run naked into the river, Porthos’s mum shouting at them. It was February. A little cold. Porthos sighs, rubbing his face. 

“Not much to it really. Friend of mine got knocked up, she wasn’t in a good place and she couldn’t look after Rosie, so I did. Then she got help and now she’s better and… Rose was never really mine. I could’ve stayed, I guess, but I just wanted to crawl away and get over it. Flea’s mad because Rose is upset about not getting to see me, Rose is upset, I’m crying on strangers’ shoulders, it’s a mess,” Porthos says. 

“Hard not to get attached, I imagine,” Athos says. 

“Rose’ll be fine, Flea’s gonna be a great Mum,” Porthos says by rote, and finds he can smile a bit about it. “I’m really proud of Flea. We grew up together, I love her to bits, I’m glad she’s well and can take care of her kid, she wanted that.”

“Mine sounds silly now,” Athos mutters. 

“I told, you gotta tell now,” Porthos says, laughing again. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“What?”

“Didn’t you ever play that?” Porthos asks, then laughs harder. “Man Charon was mad when I said after the cold water his looked like Flea’s!”

“His what?” Athos says, then his eyes widen. “Oh! That game. Um. Yes.”

“Yeah,” Porthos says, scratching his head. He doesn’t mention the stuff God handed out to him in that lottery. 

“We played that,” Athos says, lips twitching. “My best friend, Constance. Living in Chile at the moment, she and Aramis did a sort of job swap.”

“She’s a priest?”

“Teacher. And Aramis has been here years. He taught in Chile when he was younger and they asked him to come back to teach English and he suggested Constance,” Athos says. “She’s been out there for a year, now. She’ll be back, she misses university teaching too much and yelling at me over the phone about journal articles only scratches so much of the itch.”

“Were you upset she’s so far away?” Porthos asks. 

“Mm. No. We do fine with distance,” Athos says. He sighs. “I just had bit of a spin-out. I thought something was happening then and it turned out I’d misunderstood. I’ve got a bunch of stuff, I guess. You know that internet thing? Look at it, it’s got anxiety!”

“Ha,” Porthos says, a kind of half-laugh. He stops, though, recalling the look on Jamie’s face when he walked into the pub yesterday, and puts together pieces. “Oh.”

“What?” Athos asks, relaxed and easy, smiling. 

Porthos considers apologizing. He is pretty sure that he is the cause of the spin out. He had thought it sounded like Athos meant just turn up at the pub as normal and they’d go from there. When Athos wasn’t at the pub and didn’t turn up he’d gone with it needing to be organised but he can see he might have maybe not been too great yesterday. He hadn’t felt much like going out and had in fact does a bit of his own spinning out. 

“Oh God,” Athos says. He must have realised that Porthos realised. “It’s not… it’s fine. I wasn’t clear. I’m a mess, it’s my thing, don’t feel bad.”

“I would’ve texted if I’d had your number. Was having my own shitty day,” Porthos says. “Can I apologize? I didn’t mean to stand you up.”

“Christ,” Athos says. 

Porthos lets it go, remembering Athos saying the same thing a lot on their first meeting. That time it had lead to him getting drunk and dumped in a church. And kittens. He perks up and asks about Aramis and d’Artagnan’s kittens, which reminds Athos about his pig. The afternoon is less intense after that, they drink tea and talk shit and go visit with the pig. Aramis Jr is… well, she’s a pig. Porthos is not sure quite what to do with that. A big, pink, pig. She’s bigger than he expected, really really big, like up to Athos’s waist big and long. It’s a little intimidating especially when he remembers stories about people being eaten by pigs. He’s pretty sure they were dead already but that is not entirely comforting. Athos leans on the gate watching Aramis Jr asleep in the hay, completely relaxed. That’s a little reassuring but Porthos still stays a little behind Athos’s shoulder. Just in case. Athos doesn’t notice his discomfort and Porthos doesn’t mention it, just works on relaxing. It’s going really well until Aramis jr wakes up and Athos wanders over to a big bin. When he opens it up and scoops up something Aramis Jr gets hastily to her feet and comes snuffling over, there’s a gate keeping her in the barn but she comes right for Porthos and she’s big and making grunting snuffling noises and pushing at the gate so Porthos backs away. 

“She likes this, do you wa- Porthos?” Athos says. 

So Porthos backed right up out of the barn and into the yard, sue him. He peers back in and waves, Aramis Jr knocks against the gate and Porthos steps back. Athos looks around in bewilderment and then starts laughing. Porthos crosses his arms and inches back into the barn, as far from the gate and the pig as he can, glaring at Athos. Athos is bent double but he straightens up enough to go to the gate and reach into the pen with the scoop, holding it for Aramis Jr to snuffle up. She has teeth, and Porthos knocks into the frame of the door sending Athos leaning onto the gate with gales of laughter, reaching over to scratch at the pig’s back. 

“You’re afraid of the pig?” Athos asks, getting his breath back. 

“It’s bigger than I thought pigs were,” Porthos mutters. 

“You’ve not seen a pig before?” Athos asks. 

“Obviously I have,” Porthos says. “On the TV, and littler ones, your one is gigantic.”

“She’s actually fairly small, for her breed,” Athos says, smiling. “Come over here, she’s not going to hurt I promise.”

“Pigs eat people sometimes,” Porthos mutters, inching closer to Athos and standing behind his shoulder again. 

“And people eat pigs,” Athos says. “Fair’s fair.”

“Seriously, that is not reassuring,” Porthos says. 

“She’s fine,” Athos says. “Look, she’s just after treats.”

Aramis Jr nudges the gate hopefully and Athos goes to get another scoop, leaving Porthos with nothing between him and pig save the flimsy gate. 

“She likes her back being scritched,” Athos says, coming back.

“You’re sure she’s not gonna attack me or something? She doesn’t know me, she knows you. Maybe she just likes you,” Porthos says. 

“She’s a pig,” Athos says. 

“Dogs know their owners,” Porthos persists. 

He inches to the gate though and reaches cautiously over and Aramis Jr doesn’t snap at him or try to bite him. In fact she ignores him, grunting at Athos and banging the gate by Athos’s knees until Athos reaches the scoop through for her to guzzle at. Porthos tentatively touches her back and scritches. It’s weird. Her skin is warm and maybe soft, but with tough wiry hair that bristles against his fingers. He rubs his thumb over a bit then scritches, then just rests his fingers there a minute. 

“Here,” Athos says, giving him the scoop, refilled. 

Porthos reaches it over and holds it out for Aramis Jr and Athos reaches a handful out, holding his palm out and she eats out of his hand too. Porthos has a go and she’s wet and gross but it tickles his palm, her tongue’s raspy. He laughs, and scratches her back again, leaning on the gate, forgetting to be worried at all. 

“See?” Athos says. “She’s a sweetheart.”

Porthos can’t disagree with that. Athos has a little sink in the barn and they wash their hands. Porthos wonders out loud if they need to give her real food but Athos says later for that so they lean on the gate and watch her rooting about in the hay for a while before heading back into the house to get warm and have more tea. Porthos considers a few times starting off walking home but doesn’t quite and they move to the livingroom, with a woodburning stove that Athos reignites and thick curtains that Athos draws, a warm rug on a wood floor. It’s much nicer than Porthos’s house and so Porthos gets out the cookies and Athos finds some wine and they sprawl on the sofa together, talking idly. Athos puts some music on and some more lights as it gets darker and darker. He goes and cooks a freezer pizza at about five thirty and they eat in the livingroom. They watch an episode of Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries. At about seven thirty Porthos considers going home again and has a look at his phone. 

“Oh, it’s snowing in London,” he says. “Flea sent a pic of Rosie looking out at it.”

“Can I see her?” Athos asks, leaning over. Porthos shows him. “She’s a beautiful child, Porthos. She looks very happy and well cared for.”

“I did my best,” Porthos says, sighing, looking at the picture and flicking to a new one as it’s sent, Rosie blowing him a kiss. “I wasn’t perfect by any means, but we did ok, me and her. It’s hard, you know? I know I’m not ever going to have my own.”

“Why not?” Athos asks, sounding offended by that. Porthos smiles softly. 

“The logistics are just too complicated,” Porthos says. “You know, being trans, queer, it’s not likely to happen by accident and on purpose… I don’t want to do that, to be pregnant. My Mum was dirt poor, when I was born. We lived in this awful little bedsit room, with a shared kitchen and bathroom, there was needles in the hall and I wasn’t allowed out to pee at night, I had to pee in the plant pot. Council eventually bumped us up their list and got us a proper flat to live and that meant Mum could do things, get some work. She’s a journalist, you know? So she could do stuff at home. Eventually got a proper solid job and we got a proper home, when I was six, and then she fostered. Still does, actually, she’s got three kids with her at the moment.”

“You don’t want that?” Athos asks, face propped on his hand, arm on the back of the sofa, one knee tucked up, focussed entirely on Porthos. 

“Nah,” Porthos says. “Couldn’t do that, me. I get too attached. Mum has loads of love to give and likes people coming and going, likes just making her house into this big, welcoming home where people can find safety. I’d like that, too, but I like stability a bit more. I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

“You haven’t lost Rose, though, have you? Not forever. You’re just taking some space so you can all settle into your new roles,” Athos says. 

“Mm. Do you want kids?” Porthos asks. 

“Same as you, really,” Athos says, looking down at his wine and draining the glass, reaching over to put it on the coffee table. “Trans, queer, never really met anyone I wanted to do the family thing with, bit too fucked up for it right now. For a long time I was drinking way too much to be a stable anything in anyone’s life, let alone a child’s.”

“But if circumstances were what they aren’t?” Porthos asks. 

“That’s cryptic,” Athos says. “But if things were different… I really don’t know.”

“There was a lot with Rosie that was real, real hard, but I loved being a family with her. Same with my Mum and everyone coming and going. It was hard sometimes, especially when I got older and came out and stuff, as various things. But we were family,” Porthos says. “‘s’ how I met Flea. And Charon, but he… Charon died.”

“I’m sorry,” Athos says. “My brother Thomas died.”

“Charon was pretty much my brother but I know it’s different. Phew, what a bunch of cheery ones we are, today,” Porthos says, smiling. He doesn’t want to break the quiet intimacy between them so he doesn’t try to change the slightly solemn mood. 

“Do you have any pictures of you and Rosie?” Athos asks. 

Porthos huffs a laugh at his own expense and shows Athos his phone background and then his lock screen. The first is Rosie in his arms head back laughing, his beardy face tickling her, she’d like his beard. The second is him holding her hand, she’s so small and he’s bent sideways as they walk. Flea took both photos. 

“You have to reciprocate with something,” Porthos says, locking and pocketing his phone. 

Athos looks around and then tries all his pockets and then looks around again. He finds his phone down the side of the sofa after a few minutes’ searching.

“I have three missed calls from Aramis and eighteen WhatsApp messages from them,” Athos says. He taps his phone and his eyes go wide then narrow. 

“What?” Porthos says. 

Athos gets up and opens the curtains. Porthos follows and they both stare at the snow out there. It’s still coming down in thick soft flurries. 

“Wow,” Porthos says. “How did we miss that?”

“No idea but the Volvo’s not going anywhere. It’s still snowing, visibility’s shit, it’s icy,” Athos says. “I can call d’Artagnan, the Landrover might get through and if not he and Aramis know everyone, someone will have a suitable vehicle.”

“Snow!” Porthos says, pressing his face to the french windows and giggling, watching it. “Put the light off, put it off so we can see better.”

Athos does one better: he puts the inside lights off and the outside light on, brighting the small back garden that leads down to the yard. The snowflakes are lit-up as they come down and Porthos gasps, watching it, warm inside and cosy. 

“Or you can stay,” Athos says, quietly. “I’m still not turning bumfuck nowhere literal… or… wait…”

“Oh my God what?” Porthos says, turning away from the garden and the snow and staring at Athos. “What are you on about? Are you… propositioning me?”

“No!” Athos says, at once, hands coming up. “That’s what you said, the first time I met you! About… about bumfuck nowhere not being… or… that was it, you said ‘oh crap I just outed myself in a pub in bumfuck nowhere. Not literal bumfuck, sadly’. Or something.”

“I did?!” Porthos says, slightly horrified.

“I don’t think you meant to say it out loud,” Athos mumbles. 

“I was drunk,” Porthos decides. “So, staying over but no sex? Which means that you think I might assume sex,” Porthos says, thinking it through. “Why would I assume sex? Because you think I like you. Or maybe because you like me? Have we been dating without my knowledge?”

“No!” 

“Can we date with my knowledge?” Porthos asks. “And I’d like to stay over yes please.”

“I have a spare room,” Athos says. 

“Ok,” Porthos says. “Can I sleep in your room though, please, instead?”

“That’s really quick.”

“I’m not proposing ravishing you in your sleep. Or when you’re awake. Just sleeping,” Porthos says. “I am happy to sleep in the spare if you would be more comfortable.”

“No,” Athos admits. 

Porthos nods and smiles widely, going back to staring out at the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Porthos cries because he misses Rose, Charon and Thomas are both dead and Athos and Porthos mention it and talk about it, um, maybe there's some more panciking I can't remember.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Two chapters in a day! I'm super excited about this one somethign actually happens ! :) 
> 
> WARNINGS at end

Aramis is not sure if he loves or hates snow. In the ‘liking snow’ column there is: it’s pretty; he can pelt d’Artagnan with snowballs and then warm him up with snuggles Romantically; it means the boring and very involved wedding of Extreme Heterosexuality that was happening tomorrow has cancelled which is very nice; people get weirdly friendly and seem to forget to be English and decide that actually they are all people who would enjoy being friendly and nice. In the ‘disliking snow’ column is: it is wet; it is cold; it is inconvenient; it is slippy. The last one wins out and makes up Aramis’s mind for him when he gets out of the car, ferrying yet another slightly stranded person who rang their priest (for Reasons) home, and his feet slide out from under him sending him sprawling. He lies on his back and looks up at the stars. 

“I really hate snow,” he tells Jamie as Jamie comes around laughing and helps Aramis up. 

“Thanks for the ride, my Mum worried,” Jamie says, then laughs again. “Man, your face! You have snow in your hair.”

Aramis shakes his head and Jamie walks to his front door with a wave, still laughing. Aramis knows that if he stays he’ll get invited in for tea and mince-pies (Jamie’s mother, Rhonda, is like that), so he heads inside for something hot before he gets back in the Landrover and sets out carefully for home. It’s still snowing but he’s pretty sure all the parishioners who are likely to call him for help have called him, so this should be his last trip. Athos texted to say Porthos was stuck up there unless he felt like walking home, so at some point he might need collecting, but Athos had also said Porthos was happy to stay over. d’Artagnan’s going to love that, Aramis is keeping it to tell him in-person when he gets back. He smiles thinking about it as he inches through Shenmore, thinking about d’Artagnan waiting for him, their warm house, probably a hug or two and a little bit of sympathy for having to take people around the place in the snow. He’s not going to tell d’Artagnan about falling, that will just get him laughed at.

He comes out of Shenmore vaguely distracted thinking about hugging d’Artagnan. He’s so tired. He slows for the unlit roads, eyes straining, tiredness pulling at him. To begin he thinks it’s a trick of his eyes, when he sees a light on in the church. He shut everything up, earlier, once he got the weather forecast on his phone and started receiving worried calls from his parishioners. He spent most of the afternoon helping the more elderly members of his community ensure their their heating was going to stay throughout the bad weather, that those who couldn’t get out had enough food, and that no one needed medical care. Then he’d gone off driving about picking people up and ferrying them around. He’d not been back here to put lights on. He parks up, leaving the car lights on in case there are other mad people on the roads in this crap - it’s started to snow again. He heads for the side-door. Sure enough there’s a light on in the knave, it’s been switched on, not just the automatic one. There’s no one here. 

Aramis feels the creepiness of an old empty building as he makes his way to the front, his steps echoing. He calls out. He does get people sleeping in the churches he cares for, sometimes. He should maybe check tonight, or at the least tomorrow morning; it’s not warm enough to sleep in here. No one answers. Aramis goes to turn off the lights and freezes. There, set carefully underneath the light-switch on the floor, is a tiny baby in a car seat, fast asleep. Aramis stares. Then curses and kneels, checking how warm the baby is, if it’s breathing, if it’s feverish. He trained to be a nurse for a while, never got as far as actually qualifying but he knows enough to be able to tell the baby is mostly healthy and just fast asleep. He pulls out his phone and bumps to sit on the floor, dialing the police. He gets put in a queue, so he hangs up and thinks, flicking mentally through his contacts, then rings Athos’s friend, de Foix. 

“What?” de Foix snaps.

“It’s Aramis. Someone left a fucking baby in the fucking church,” Aramis says, not beating around the bush. 

“What?!” de Foix says. 

“A baby in my mother fucking church in the fucking fucking snow,” Aramis says, carefully wrapping the blankets more around the tiny body. 

“Fuck me,” de Foix says. “Really?”

“Really really, do you want me to send you photos?” Aramis asks. 

“No no. I’m on duty, awful night bit of a bad mood,” de Foix says. “I’m gonna hang up on you, give me ten minutes to see what I can do.”

Aramis, who’s known de Foix long enough to be unoffended by either his brusqueness or his bad temper, expects no goodbye and gets none, just a sudden buzz. He hangs up and waits. The baby stirs again and makes waking up sorts of noises so Aramis lifts it out and holds it, opening up his jacket to share his warmth. It’s warm already, against him, little hands trying to escape the blanket cocoon. He sings The Lord’s my Shepherd and Praise God from whom All Blessings Flow, laughing softly when his mind wanders to considering what his parishioners might think if they knew he knows the latter from The Secret Garden and the former from a film. He never did very well at learning the hymns by heart. The tunes all seem so similar too, the baby seems to like them well enough, going heavy against him, body relaxed and easy. He sings The Coventry Carol almost absently, the baby settling on his chest and shoulder, cradled there. His phone rings and he jumps out of his skin, the baby’s fast asleep again luckily and doesn’t wake as Aramis fumbles to answer. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“de Foix. Yeah, no one’s getting out to you tonight. I’ve made a quick report to the relevant department, someone will call in the morning, it’ll probably be Brujon or Clermont they’re both young but they’re very good,” de Foix says. “I assume you can take care of her tonight? Right, excellent, I told them you could. Goodnight.”

“No, no!” Aramis says, but de Foix is gone. Aramis curses and rings Athos. He has to ring four times before Athos answers. He lays the baby back in the car seat as he waits for Athos to pick up and pulls his knees up against his chest instead. Athos just grunts. “Athos I found a baby and I have to keep her, I need help.”

“Um, it’s one in the morning Aramis,” Athos mumbles. “What?”

“I found a baby in the church and I rang the police but they said they can’t get here and I should just keep her but I’m panicking,” Aramis says, feeling on edge of bursting into tears. He wants children, he’d felt something settle in him with the baby in his arms warm and trusting against him, felt something wrench and tear away setting her down. “I can’t do it, Athos. I haven’t even told d’Artagnan how much… how… not yet. I told him I wanted them, but we’ve never…”

“Ok,” Athos soothes, sounding more awake. “Calm down. What do you want me to do about any of this?” And then, less soothing, more astounded, “you found a baby in a church? Jesus Christ, only you, Aramis.”

“I want you to come and look after the baby,” Aramis says, wiping his eyes. “Obviously.”

“No,” Athos says. “You’ve been married for seven years, how have you never talked about this?”

“We have,” Aramis says, leaning his head back against the wall and shutting his eyes. “Just not extensively. We both agreed we want them, and it’s never quite come up. I resigned myself ages ago to not having any, and then d’Artagnan, and I was complacent about it being part of my future, and I was ok, and I forgot. But I just picked this one up and… oh, Athos.”

“Come up here, then,” Athos says, yawning. “I’m not going out, and even if I were willing, I have a Volvo not a snow plough. Hmmm.”

“What?” Aramis asks, as Athos sighs and hums again. Aramis can hear him shifting. 

“Oh, nothing,” Athos says, and covers the mouth piece. Aramis can still hear, muffled but clear enough. “It’s Aramis he found a baby… in a church…” Athos laughs and Aramis hears Porthos’s voice, briefly louder. “No for real…. Ok, well I guess…” Athos laughs again. 

Aramis sits up, fascinated by getting to hear this little snippet of Athos in bed and intimate. Athos seems to remember him and comes back to the phone, telling Aramis to come up to the house again and telling him everything’ll be ok and then Aramis agrees it will all be fine and he hangs up with a sigh. That means he won’t be getting home tonight. He wants to see d’Artagnan, for a good gossip if nothing else but also he’s cold, he’s knackered, he’s been up since six and driving around in bad conditions for the past few hours. He hasn’t even had time to finish his dinner yet. This is his job, though; to look after people, to take care of those who need the church’s protection and care. It’s what he wants to do, too; he wants people safe and warm and happy. He just wants to include himself in that list. He agrees and hangs up and goes home first. He justifies it as picking up things he’s going to definitely need to stay at Athos’s and slips and slides up to the house, the baby in its carrier. He loses his footing on the steps and, trying to balance, setting the baby down quickly and slipping again, thunks into the door. He shakes his head and by the time he’s got himself together the door’s opened by a curious d’Artagnan. 

“Did you forget keys?”

“I didn’t knock. I slid into the fucking door. Fucking snow,” Aramis snaps, pushing into the hallway. “Can you grab pyjamas and stuff? We’re sleeping on Athos’s sofa tonight. Or I am, and I am forcing you to as well.”

“Ok?” d’Artagnan says, staring at the baby in it’s car seat.

“Can I explain later?” Aramis asks, setting it down.

“Sure,” d’Artagnan says, smiling, pulling Aramis in for a hug, hand warm against the back of his neck. “There’s some food out in the kitchen, easy to eat in a hurry, and a flask of tea. I wasn’t sure you’d be able to stop.”

“Thank you,” Aramis says. 

They go separate ways, Aramis lugging the baby, stuffing the cheese sandwich into his mouth and gulping down a small cup of hot tea as d’Artagnan grabs things to sleep over. Aramis sits on the floor to eat, when d’Artagnan doesn’t reappear at once, and finds himself fussing over the baby’s blankets, touching the baby’s cheek, rocking the seat when the baby shifts. 

“Hey, you ready?” d’Artagnan asks, voice soft. 

“We’re waiting on you,” Aramis says, getting up, creaking and cracking as he stretches his tired body back out. 

“I remembered that there are still a lot of donations hanging around for the food bank and stuff, and went to have a rummage. I found a set of bottles, some nappies,” d’Artagnan says. “Thankfully, nothing will be open this late.”

“Good thinking,” Aramis says, hefting the car seat. d’Artagnan gives him a smile and then leads the way out to the Landrover. 

Aramis had, coming home, just set the seat in the front and secured it with a belt, but now d’Artagnan finds a diagram and does university level mathmatics and six different types of geometry to get the thing secure in the back pretty much exactly the same way Aramis did it before. Aramis doesn’t mind, he sits behind the wheel and waits patiently, listening to d’Artagnan doing calculus and planning the next rocket to the moon in order to get the seat fitted. Finally he’s done and Aramis can do his last careful journey of the night. He makes a pledge that he will not drive for at least two days after this. He will sleep, and d’Artagnan can drive if it’s necessary. For now though he has the practice and it distracts him from the warmth spreading through him thinking about d’Artagnan taking care of their children, fitting the seats carefully and perfectly, whispering apologies to the babies when he swears. 

“Aramis? Shall we turn off for Athos’s or drive all the way to Abergavenny?” d’Artagnan asks softly. Aramis shakes himself and makes the turning. 

“Aber’s nowhere near here,” he points out, driving slowly down the lane. 

The snow here is thick and untouched. He’s glad when they reach the house and can park up. The outside lights are on and Porthos is waiting in the doorway, a blanket around his shoulders. He comes stumping over and opens d’Artagnan’s door, talking quickly. Aramis is too tired to tune in and follow, he just sits. He watches Porthos open the back and extract baby and seat with a quick easy movement, lifting the baby out into one big arm and heading back into the house, head bent to examine things. Aramis sits. d’Artagnan gets out and shuts the doors then comes round to fetch Aramis, wrapping an arm around his waist to lead him into the house, bag slung over a shoulder. Athos and Porthos are in the livingroom, Porthos is sat on the floor and has the baby unwrapped. 

“She’ll be cold,” Aramis says, feeling numb. 

“Nah, we lit a fire, it’s nice in here,” Porthos says, smiling softly up at him. “Want to help? Just checking her over. Athos says you were almost a nurse? She needs a new nappy if nothing else.”

“Is she a ‘she’?” Aramis asks, kneeling. It hadn’t occurred to him as important. 

“No idea,” Porthos says. “What arbitrary rule shall we go by? Ears? Belly button? Or the socially recognised but equally random genitals?”

Aramis checks the colour of her skin and how warm she again and checks for bruises and rashes. She has got a rash on her back but Porthos assures him it’s not any of the terrible things in Aramis’s text books and is, in fact, merely a small rash. Porthos mutters about finding a towel or something to use as a nappy until d’Artagnan produces his supplies. The baby is indeed, according to arbitrary social rules, a girl. She wakes up as Porthos changes her nappy and he lifts her to his shoulder as she cries, getting to his feet and moving in that parental bouncing movement, hushing and shushing. 

“She’s hungry,” Porthos says, stooping to grab the bottle from the sofa. “Want to help, Aramis?”

“We haven’t anything to give her!” Aramis cries, scrambling to his feet. “We have no formula or anything! Can she drink milk? We need to go buy some formula, Athos, now. You can drive the landrover.”

“Nowhere will be open,” Athos says, but he sounds calm and soothing. “Don’t panic, I used your super duper telephone tree thing and rang people close by, Porthos walked over to Jenny’s across the valley and picked up some from here. He also had plans to juice carrots or something, he had all kinds of contingency plans. Lucky you thought of nappies though Jenny hadn’t got anything we could have.”

“Oh,” Aramis says, focussing on Porthos, who’s still smiling softly at him. “You know a lot about babies.” 

“A bit,” Porthos says, smile growing. “Brought one up myself, and I had oodles of little ones coming and going when i was growing up, my Mum’s always fostering.”

“Oh,” Aramis says, trailing him to the kitchen. 

“We’re going to adopt,” d’Artagnan says, coming too and holding Aramis around the waist again, pulling him close and kissing his forehead. “In the next few years. We’ve started looking at options already. We did consider fostering, and we might do that in the future too.”

“I get attached though,” Aramis says, eyes glued to the baby, who’s still scrunched up and snuffling but much less grizzly. Porthos is big and warm and soft, Aramis might be less grizzly in his arms too. Porthos has filled up the bottle and set it in a bowl of boiling water. 

“Tea?” He offers, holding up the kettle. 

“No thanks,” d’Artagnan says. “Let’s get that one fed and then I think this one needs to sleep.”

“I’m fine,” Aramis assures. Porthos is staring at him, eyes wide and assessing and full of compassion. Aramis looks away, uncomfortable. 

“I’ll feed her,” Porthos says. “Let’s do it in the livingroom, though.”

They all troop back, Porthos with baby and bottle. She seems to know food is near and has stopped grizzling but is now restless and making demanding little noises. Porthos sits on the sofa and Aramis sits beside him, leaning close to watch as the baby, set half-upright against Porthos’s thigh and arm, tips her head back to suck down milk like she’s not eaten or drunk in days. She makes happy sounds as she goes. Aramis gazes, enrapt. 

“She’ll need another bottle in a few hours,” Porthos says, quietly. “Me and Athos can take her up with us?”

“Yes please,” d’Artagnan says, firmly. “Can me and Aramis take the spare room Athos?”

“Go ahead,” Athos says. 

Aramis watches the baby eat then yawns, leaning absently on the closest warm body. He falls asleep on Porthos’s shoulder, and starts awake a few moments later when the baby lets out a loud, adult size burp. d’Artagnan giggles as Porthos showers the baby in praises before shifting her so he can pat her back, rubbing and patting until she burps again. Aramis blinks. 

“She’s so noisy,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees. “She’s a proper healthy little one. Whoever left her cared a lot about her, she’s not new born they must have had her for a bit. Ah, I wonder what happened.”

“Maybe we’ll find out and whoever it was will want her back,” Aramis says, still slumped against Porthos, watching the baby lie in his lap. “She looks drunk.”

“Milk-drunk,” Porthos says. “Yeah.”

“Bed time,” d’Artagnan murmurs, pressing his lips to the back of Aramis’s neck, arms inching around Aramis and ungluing him from Porthos and the baby. 

“Good idea,” Athos agrees, getting to his feet. “d’Artagnan, go make sure everything’s made up would you?” 

d’Artagnan goes. Aramis leans into Athos and cries a little bit, getting a warm embrace. 

“I think d’Artagnan might have an inkling about your feelings around this,” Athos murmurs. 

“Maybe,” Aramis says. 

“I’m gonna wash and sterilize this bottle, Athos, you still happy to sleep with me and her?” Porthos asks. 

“Yes of course,” Athos says. “I’ll take Aramis up, I think he’s likely to turn into a slinky and slither away, he’s milk-drunk too.”

“I’m exhausted,” Aramis breathes, letting himself be lead towards the stairs. “You’re sleeping with Porthos, huh? Good choice.”

“Shush,” Athos says, blushing. “You’re loud.”

“And a baby already too,” Aramis says, cackling with laughter, clinging to Athos as they climb the stairs. “That’s fast, Ath!”

“Shut up,” Athos says. “Anyway, Porthos made a bed in a drawer, the baby’s sleeping in that.”

“Wow,” Aramis says, sobering. “He’s quick.”

“He has experience with babies and with sudden babies appearing, apparently. Though his Mum has formula and cribs and supplies just in case, it has apparently been years and years since they were caught short like this and Porthos had to run down to Mrs Abbasi’s to get formula and nappies,” Athos says. “Here we are, delivered right to the door.”

“Thanks,” d’Artagnan says, wrapping Aramis in a hug and maneuvering them about. 

Aramis holds on and yawns, letting d’Artagnan do the work of getting him in bed and out of his clothing. He keeps awake though, waiting for d’Artagnan to crawl in with him and wrap around him and hold him. He’s warm and familiar; Aramis snuggles in.

“I found us a baby,” he whispers. “Little miracle baby. I think her name is Leah.”

“Oh Aramis,” d’Artagnan sighs. 

“Shh. I’m just pretending,” Aramis mumbles, against d’Artagnan’s chest, already asleep and dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: adandoned baby. Someone leaves he in a church! Aramis finds her and keep her safe and she's healthy and good.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS at end. 
> 
> this chapter is loooong is dunno why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNIGNS: porthos is sad about Rosie. Aramis is sad about the new lil bb

Porthos stumbles back to bed at six am and falls face first in, lying on top of the covers, not even remotely caring. He’s tired. He had forgotten how knackering this routine was. Baby Jesus is finally sleeping again. Athos says he can in no way call her Jesus because she’s a she and anyway Jesus was not in any way found in a stable and lots of other half asleep mumblings but, as Athos was half asleep at the time and annoyed that Jesus was yelling in his ear, Porthos dismisses all of that. Plus maybe Jesus was a girl, it’s not like history would’ve recorded it that ways. He manages two hours of sleep this time before he’s woken by little cries. He’s under the covers and snug in Athos’s arms. Athos seems to be a good sleeping companion - he has efficiently gravitated to Porthos and dragged him under the covers and into a cuddle every time Porthos has had to get up, it’s nice. Baby Jesus’s cries go from sleepy snuffling to ‘OH MY GOD PORTHOS I’M HUNGRY GET THE FUCK UP RIGHT THIS SECOND’. Porthos gets the fuck up. 

He can’t quite be bothered to go back to bed, this time. He lies on the sofa and plays with the baby until one or the other of them dozes off, he’s not sure which. When he wakes again it’s to a disorientingly close face; Aramis is sitting on the floor, head pressed close, watching the baby and Porthos. Aramis shifts his gaze from baby to Porthos and straightens up quickly, patting Porthos’s bicep, maybe as an apology. Porthos closes his eyes and tries to go back to sleep, but Aramis takes the opportunity to go back to staring which is disconcerting. Porthos opens his eyes again and Aramis again sits up quickly, looking innocently anywhere but at Porthos and the baby. Porthos shuts his eyes again and then opens them at once, catching Aramis bending close again. He growls and Aramis sits up straight. 

“You,” Porthos mumbles, still slightly gooey with sleep, “are very annoying.”

Aramis gives him an innocent look of surprise, a ‘who, me?’, all the way to a hand pressed to his chest. The baby reacts to the noise, clearly already halfway to being awake, and starts to grizzle. Porthos groans and presses his head back into the sofa, closing his eyes. 

“How is she this hungry?” he grumbles, sitting up with another groan, getting to his feet. 

“I could feed her,” Aramis says, looking up at Porthos, hands in his lap like he’s trying to keep them from wrapping around Porthos’s ankle to keep the baby with him. 

“Nah,” Porthos says. “She’s fine. Come on, Jesus, let’s get you a clean nappy too.”

Porthos treks to the kitchen and gets the formula, already made up in the bottle, out of the fridge, putting the kettle on and setting the stupid bottle in the stupid bowl to fill with the stupid water once it stupid boils. He changes baby Jesus’s nappy there on the kitchen floor, on a blanket. He got tired of traipsing about to do different things at some point in the night and set this up. Baby Jesus does not want her nappy changed, she screams. Porthos gets the bottle ready and plays with her, letting her be naked for a bit - they’re by the AGA it’s warm enough. When she has her bottle he gets the nappy and clothes on her easy and scoops her back up, heading to the livingroom. Athos passes him with a truly curmudgeonly grunt. 

“He’s going for the coffee,” d’Artagnan says, bounding down the stairs, horribly cheerful and awake and like he’s actually slept and is now well rested. “Aramis baby, de Foix’s friend Clairmont is on the phone.”

“Oh,” Aramis says, darkly, glaring as they all enter the livingroom. 

Porthos is pretty sure that Aramis wants to keep this little baby. Athos had asked Porthos to do most of the child-care, last night, and Porthos had agreed, not minding. He’s used to this kind of thing, he can give this baby back no problems. Probably. She is cute. He settles on the sofa, baby on his chest with her milk, snugged in his arm. He leans his head back and shuts his eyes, listening to Aramis’s one-sided conversation. From what he can hear there’s still no one coming out today and Aramis is very unhappy about that situation. The police have started what they can, trying to trace the parents and trying to find the baby a placement. 

“Is there any reason you and d’Artagnan can’t take her, if no one comes forward to claim her or if they sign her over for adoption or fostering?” Porthos asks. 

There’s silence and he opens his eyes and finds Aramis staring at him, wide eyed and panicked. Oops. Porthos shrugs an apology. Whatever is going on there is definitely more complicated than that. 

“We could,” d’Artagnan says. “But we haven’t got around to signing up with an agency yet or with government services, and I assume the first step would be an emergency placement or something.”

“She’ll be put in the foster system, yeah,” Porthos says, actually considering it and trying to remember what he knows from his mum and from back when Flea sort of maybe technically abandoned Rosie. “They’ll do everything to try and find family. If they can’t, or the family are shits or don’t want him or can’t care for him, likely there’s be a court order for adoption. They tend to start proceedings for adoption before the official order, as soon as things have been exhausted with the family option.”

“Aramis doesn’t want to get attached,” d’Artagnan says. 

“Good idea,” Porthos says. “But, look, she was brought to your church, you guys know everyone, the community here seems to be quite small. It’s likely that her family will be found. Plus she’s been real well cared for, if the police make it clear in a call for information that they can be discrete and they need some legal bumf before she can find a home, I think her mum or dad or whoever’s been looking after her will come forward.”

“Still. Porthos, we’re a gay couple, we’ve only just started all the adoption stuff,” d’Artagnan says. 

“Aramis is a priest, he’s known in the community. You both have good jobs, you have a million people who’ll write you testimonies. I’m not saying it’ll be smooth sailing but you guys have a lot that adoption agencies look for,” Porthos says. “I’d talk to a lawyer. If you want her, if you feel connected to her, God that is something to hang onto and fight for, not something to fight against,” Porthos says. 

“She will get taken away, though,” Aramis says. 

“Maybe,” Porthos agrees, looking down at the baby who’s gone back to sleep. “I dunno one way or another. She might be. But think about it, yeah? That doesn’t mean allowing yourself to fall all-out in love with her, but just keep it in mind as an option and mention it to Child Services.”

“Ok,” d’Artagnan says. 

“Sorry,” Porthos says. “I’ve seen a million people who’ve not been fought for, who’ve been given up or given up on. Love and connection is never a bad thing,” Porthos says. 

He feels bad. Aramis doesn’t talk for half an hour and then goes off for a long walk in the snow. d’Artagnan trails after him and Porthos goes back to sleep on the sofa and wakes up to Athos, sipping coffee and reading, the baby in the crook of one arm. Porthos smiles. 

“Do you want coffee?” Athos asks, not looking up from the book. “You upset my Aramis, I’m cross, but you can still have coffee.”

“Your Aramis?” Porthos says, yawning and stretching. He feels better rested. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

“Ok. Coffee?” Athos asks again. 

Porthos nods and gets up just as the baby Jesus wakes up. He goes to shower, taking her with him. Babies always like being naked and being bathed. He remembers doing this with Rosie, way back at the start, sitting in the shower and holding her and crying his eyes out, too tired and too over stretched and so angry with Flea and sad for her. He’d rung his Mum a lot back then. This baby is easier, it’s not his and never will be and it needs his care and compassion but not his love. He has a feeling this baby is going to get plenty of love. He gets out and dries them, gets a nappy on quick. Babies are suggestible – they see or experience water, they pee. He learnt that one the hard way. He heads downstairs again and finds his phone, calling his Mum and asking her about the chances of Aramis and d’Artagan getting this baby. She promises to send him some resources and suggestions and to get on her network of carers and adoptive parents and tug a few strings, if the baby’s family doesn’t come forward. 

“Why are you so invested in this?” Athos asks, bringing him coffee. 

“I dunno,” Porthos says. “Just the look on Aramis’s face. I know that feeling, I’d like to help if I can.”

“Ok,” Athos says, sitting beside them with his own coffee. “That’s a good reason. Have you heard from Flea today? Have they got snow like this?”

“Nah, it spattered then rained, barely stayed an hour or two. She and Rose are fine and dandy,” Porthos says. “You know, I just want everyone to get used to everything. Why can’t Flea give things a chance to settle?”

“God, don’t ask me,” Athos says. “I don’t understand people. Stick to pigs, that’s my advice oh shit I forgot to feed Aramis! I’m a terrible pig owner, Jesus Christ.”

Athos runs out and Porthos laughs, waking up the baby Jesus. He plays with her, laying her on her back on the rug. Eventually Aramis and d’Artagnan return, pink cheeked and wind chapped but happier. The day passes slowly, Porthos mostly charged with baby-care. Athos helps out sometimes and d’Artagnan tentatively takes a turn feeding her in the evening. They’ve all had dinner and are sprawled, full and warm and content, around the livingroom, about nine pm, when there’s the sound of a car on the drive and then the front door opens. 

“Athos?” a voice calls. 

“Living room!” Athos calls back. “de Foix?”

“Yeah,” de Foix says, coming in. 

Porthos looks up, then stares at the man who walks in. He has long hair worn loose, a leather jacket, scruffy facial hair. He’s familiar, somehow. Porthos narrows his eyes. Somehow he should be younger… 

“Oh my god you were in the army with Jean Treville,” Porthos says, placing him: he’s grown up with photos of this man and Treville around him, doing increasingly stupid things as Porthos grew and was allowed to hear more of Treville stories. “You got stuck in a vending machine!”

“He’s still telling that story?” de Foix growls, turning on Porthos. He stares in his turn, head tilted on one side. “You’re Belgard’s boy.”

“I am Marie-Cessette du Vallon’s ‘boy’,” Porthos corrects. “That fucker gets no claim on my awesomeness.”

“Apologies,” de Foix says, bowing sardonically. “How is Treville?”

“No clue he ran off to France a year ago and has forgotten how to use a phone,” Porthos says. “Last I heard he sent me an email listing all the markets and restaurants he’d been to, lots of pictures of food, and a go-pro film of him jumping off something very high.”

“Guys,” Athos says. 

“Right, later,” de Foix says. “What a small world and all that. This is Clairmont, he’s from Child Services, and his partner Alice Clerbeaux who finally got her ass into work. Snow’s thawing out a bit and most roads are gritted, we thought this might be worth following up on.”

“I know your mother,” Alice says, pushing through the men and coming over to Porthos. She looks down at the baby and smiles. “How is she?”

“Really healthy,” Porthos says. “Seems pretty good, not scared or unsure about touch or nothing, used to being held and loved I’d say.”

“Looks like it,” Alice says, laughing. “She seems quite content where she is.”

“I’m a very comfortable pillow,” Porthos boasts. Alice is very pretty. “You know me Mum?”

“Tangentially,” Alice says, checking under baby Jesus’s clothes with a quick professional touch and eye. “I agree with your assessment, from a two second check. We’ll take her to the hospital, see if we can find her records. We’ve put out a call on the radio and passed the word around, we have a couple of uniforms going house to house to likely candidates. Clairmont?”

“Right, I need to talk to Aramis d’Herblay and d’Artagnan d’Herblay?” Clairmont says. 

“My name’s Charles d’Herblay if you’re going that route,” d’Artagnan says, getting up and pulling Aramis after him. “Together?”

“That’s fine,” Clairmont says. 

“Use the kitchen,” Athos offers. 

They all troop out, followed by Alice, and de Foix sits. He smiles at Athos. Athos smiles back. Porthos watches, amused. Eventually Athos gets up and goes to get a bottle of whiskey. Porthos smiles and settles back for a while, yawning, happy with the baby for now. When the police have done with Aramis and d’Artagnan they head out, with the baby. They offer Porthos a lift and he accepts, kissing Athos goodbye (and that’s very nice). He sits with baby Jesus in the back, next to Clairmont, and it is afterall a bit of a wrench to say goodbye to her when he gets home. He heads in and looks around his empty house. After a day or two of Athos’s busy place and company, it feels lonely and very empty. He sits in the kitchen and boots up his laptop, catching up on emails for an hour before heading to bed. He Facetimes Flea. 

“Yeah, hi,” she says, sounding tired. “Sorry about last time, I suppose.”

“Me too,” Porthos says. “I’ve been thinking. I have been relying on you for emotional support, out here on my own, and that’s not fair. Sorry. I can’t do this your way, I’m not saying your wrong or my way’s better, I just can’t do it. I’m sorry about that, too. I love you guys and miss you.”

“Good apologies,” Flea says. 

“Do you have support there? I did check before I left, but it’s been two months.”

“Yeah,” Flea says. “It’s not the same as you, but, yeah. Your Mum’s been amazing. She says she’d consider Rosie her granddaughter whatever your involvement in our lives.”

“She’s the best,” Porthos agrees. His mother had told him she’d not cut Flea or Rosie out of her life, or change her relationship with either. “Is she settling ok? Rose? She doesn’t… miss me too much?”

He half hopes that Flea will say that Rose does miss him too much, that she needs him in her life, that there’s nothing she needs more. Flea smiles, though, and shrugs. 

“She’s doing okay. We’re working to establish a good routine,” Flea says. “She’s sleeping through the night again and she does sometimes ask for you if she’s really upset but she’s started coming right to me if she falls or something, and she asks for me your mum says, when she stays over there.”

“That’s so good,” Porthos says. 

“Yeah,” Flea says. “I see why you want to do it this way. I don’t like it, but, ok. We are gonna do this. Me and Rose, we’ll be fine. We will learn to live without you, we will be fine without you.”

“Fuck’s sake, Flea,” Porthos says. 

“I’m allowed to be angry.”

“And I’m allowed to look after myself! I looked after her for three years, I raised her, I helped you for a year getting back on your feet, I looked after you,” Porthos says. “I love you both but I gotta do things for me, I need to find some other meaning in my life than her. Unless you’re giving her back, I’ve gotta learn to live without her, and this is the only way I know how to do that.”

“Right,” Flea says. “Now that we’ve both been irredeemably cruel to each other, shall we hang up?”

“I want to be friends, this sucks. Let’s just… take a break. Call me if you need, but otherwise, let’s says two weeks,” Porthos says. 

“Yeah, alright,” Flea says. “I love you, Porthos, I’m sorry I’m not kind.”

“Me too.”

“Ok,” Flea says. “I’ll send you a million pictures tonight to tide you over. Two weeks is a long time.”

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees. 

“Two weeks,” Flea says. 

They say goodbye and Porthos rings his Mum, who clucks and reassures him and tells him he’s wonderful and beautiful and should definitely god damn go to sleep. That is very good advice – Porthos does as he’s told. 

He does a quick catch up on work the following days, and keeps in touch with Athos about the baby, and digs in the garden, and avoids his phone. He’s keeping the photos, just looking at one a day, to tide him over. On the Sunday he goes to sleep with the phone on the pillow next to him, his other pillow held against his face to muffle his crying because it’s the kind of crying that sticks in the chest and throat and hurts like hell, stiffled or let out. He wakes up feeling about eighty years old and shuffles about with tea getting his work done before conking out on the sofa, ready to cry again. He’s not really sure why it’s hit him right now just how much he is not a parent anymore, but it has. He’d never felt as alone as he did with Rosie, some of the time it felt like he hadn’t seen or spoken to another human in years, just him and the small baby, just him and the toddler, and so tired he thought he’d not manage. He had so many things he had to do and so many responsibilities and he was drowning. But he feels more alone now than then; then he’d had a warm body to curl up with, and her laughter, and her hugs, and her brightness. Now it’s just him, wheezing on his back on a sofa. There’s a thunk, which it takes him a while to interpret as a knock because who just thunks once? He gets up and shuffles to open the door, and sees Aramis, head against where the door was. 

“Did you just headbutt my door?” Porthos asks, and realises, as he struggles with his plosives, that he is seriously congested. He coughs at Aramis. 

“No,” Aramis says, drawing the word out and waving his fist. He steps forward, thunks his head against Porthos’s chest, and then his fist, demonstrating how he knocked apparently. “Oh wow you are solid. Do you work out?”

“Yeah, usually, haven’t for a while I tried running but fields suck and roads you get people trying to drive you home,” Porthos says. 

“I do cross-country, I can bring you along? You get used to it, we can start slow,” Aramis says, wrapping his arms around Porthos. “Wow. You are nice aren’t you? I bet you give the best hugs.”

“Yeah I pretty much do,” Porthos says, demonstrating. Aramis sinks into the embrace with a blissful sigh, tipping his head back so he can gaze up at Porthos. His eyes are a bit weird. “Are you drunk?”

“Li’l bit,” Aramis says. “Just a lil bit. d’Artagnan… um… he did a thing. Bad thing.”

“Uh oh?” Porthos suggests. 

“Yeah,” Aramis says. “Uh oh. Like you say. You do give nice hugs, I was right. Hold me tighter?”

“Sure,” Porthos says, doing so. It’s quite nice to hug someone, he always did like hugging people. He’s always been a hugger. “My Mum used to call me limpet.”

“Awwww that’s so cute,” Aramis says. Then he… Porthos blinks. Yeah, Aramis just licked his collar bone. “You taste like sweat.”

“Um,” Porthos says. 

“Oops. Did I lick you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Oh well, never mind. I was just trying it out,” Aramis says, resting his head on Porthos’s shoulder. “You are nice to me.”

“Yeah. Uh, what are you doing here? I mean, sure, you’re welcome, you gave me a place to sleep when you didn’t know me and you fed me, sleep and food are two of my favourite things, easy way to my heart… um,” Porthos says. Aramis is just kind of burrowing closer. 

“You were nice to me, about Leah. d’Artagnan is not nice about Leah,” Aramis says. 

“Leah?” 

“Little baby.”

“Oh! The baby Jesus!”

“What? Oh my god you called her Jesus?! Porthos!”

“Little miracle baby,” Porthos says, defensively. Good lord he really is congested. “I need a tissue.”

“Oh. Me too. I was crying,” Aramis says. 

“You’re going to have to let go of me,” Porthos says. 

“Nope,” Aramis says, giggling, and then he climbs onto Porthos’s feet and attaches himself very much like a limpet and rests his head on Porthos’s shoulder and sighs. 

“Um, ow?” Porthos says, but gives him a feety ride over to the counter with the tissues. “Get off, ow.”

Aramis makes a really sad snotty noise but gets off and accepts tissues. They both blow their noses and Aramis laughs, kissing Porthos’s forehead. 

“Oh boy you have a fever,” Aramis says, pressing his palm the spot he just kissed, then the backs of his fingers, his other hand going to the back of Porthos’s neck. 

“You can’t tell like that,” Porthos says. 

“Maybe not but you are far too warm, you’re slightly sweaty, and you’re congested, ie you are sick and therefore feverish is a solid deduction.”

“Alright Sherlock Holmes,” Porthos mutters, because he probably does have a fever, he can feel it, he probably is sick, he might too sad to have noticed but now it’s been mentioned it makes sense, and that was pretty solid deduction. “Ok, tell me why you’re here, Aramis. Like I say you’re welcome, but unexpected.”

“Make me tea and show me to your sofa,” Aramis demands. 

Porthos does, he takes the tissues with them too and finds some cookies that he somehow has not eaten. He and Aramis sprawl on the sofa for a while, Aramis slowly trying to meld himself into Porthos. He’s far more cuddly than Porthos expected. 

“Did your Mama really call you a limpet?” Aramis asks, eventually. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, smiling.

“d’Artagnan had people at our house, asking questions. Apparently he’s been having testimonies sent in and talking to the child services people and trying to get Leah for us.”

“The little baby Jesus,” Porthos says. 

“I told him not to,” Aramis whispers, voice raw, as if it scrapes his throat to admit that. “No one’s come forwards.”

“It’s been a week,” Porthos says. “What happens will happen.”

“How can you say that? It’s so hollow.”

“I find it comforting. The pieces fall where they will, and then we pick them up. Again and again and again, ad naseum,” Porthos says. “Loving is never a bad thing. It might hurt but I think it’s worth it.”

“I held her once. I got nothing from that.”

“Maybe she did. And maybe you will. I…” Porthos hesitates, but Aramis is Athos’s best friend. Athos called him ‘my Aramis’. If Athos is going to be in his life then Aramis will be. Even if Athos is an introvert and apparently needs oodles of time to recover from having people in his house. “I raised a little girl, nearly four years. I moved out here a little bit to run away. My Mum’s best friend grew up around here, de Foix’s ex army buddy Treville, so I knew the area a little. He used to bring me out here sometimes as a kind of holiday. My Mum would send me off out here when the coming and going was too much. I’d get attached, and then people would move on, and sometimes I needed just some attention for myself. Treville gave me that.”

“He sounds nice,” Aramis says. 

“He is. My Mum’s great, she loved me to bits, to absolute pieces. Loved all of us. She knew what we needed, too. I needed attention, she found a way to balance that even when she didn’t have time to give it to me personally,” Porthos says. “She’s my favourite person in the world.”

“Mama’s boy,” Aramis says. “Mine died.”

“Aw, I’m sorry,” Porthos says. “Well, I raised Rosie, and now we’ve got to let the pieces fall. She’ll always be in my life and in my heart, just not mine. I get used to that, she gets used to that, and we start to tentatively see what we will be to each other. Maybe I’m her uncle, or her father-figure, I dunno. We’ll see where the pieces fall. And loving her’s the best thing I ever did.”

“I won’t be part of Leah’s life.”

“Maybe not, or maybe she’ll be in your parish, or maybe her family will need support or respite care. There are lots of ways to love a kid who needs it, and sometimes that’ll be enough. Or maybe it doesn’t end up working, and you carry it and learn from it, and find a different child to love. I don’t know,” Porthos says. 

“Ok,” Aramis says. 

“You can’t help loving,” Porthos says. “Might as well let it come, and learn how to let it go too.”

“You’re doing an excellent job of letting it go.”

“Oh give over. Grieving is important, letting yourself feel whatever you feel is healthy and good,” Porthos says. “Getting drunk and yelling at your husband is probably less healthy but hey, all part of processing.”

“You talk a lot,” Aramis grumbles. “I did not get drunk and yell at my husband, anyway. I yelled at my husband and THEN got drunk.”

“Ok,” Porthos says, yawning. “I’m gonna nap now.”

“Ohhh that’s a fabulous idea,” Aramis says, stretching with a groan and curling tighter, closer. 

Porthos stares at him, suddenly wide awake as Aramis settles against him and trustingly, easily, falls asleep. Porthos stares. Aramis’s face is against his bicep, his mouth slightly open, the evening sun catching on his eyelashes against his winter-pale sheek. His hair’s undone and loose around him, his profile is elegant and there’s such delicacy about him somehow, like he’s a pen and ink drawing wetted to make shadows, shades, shapes. He’s so very beautiful. Porthos picks up his phone and rings Athos.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been switching chapters when I switch character POV, I only edited half of this one soooo we'll still be with Athos next time I guess. Maybe it'll be short. I dunno. brain tired.

When Porthos rings all a-froth with who knows what Athos’s first instinct to to panic. This is derailed though because Porthos is whispering and his hoarse, tense speech is hardly coherent, but Athos hears ‘and he’s not a kitten but god damn he is soft and he’s curled up on me and who the fuck purrs in their sleep?’ and then Aramis’s fairly distinctive sleep-breathing, a kind of rasp at the back of his throat. It does kind of sound like purring. He does that when he sleeps at an odd angle and breathes through his mouth with his head back. Athos gets distracted firstly because he’s never heard Aramis’s weird noises described as ‘purring’ before and because he really has definitely known Aramis too long to know that. 

“Aramis is there?” Athos asks. 

“He is drunk,” Porthos whispers, enunciating carefully, still whispering. 

“Is the whispering for his benefit? He’s not going to wake up if he sounds like that,” Athos says. 

“What is with that?” Porthos asks, at more normal volume but higher pitched than usual.

“I dunno,” Athos says, settling deeper into his arm chair. “He’s always done it. Something about being tired, muscles, I don’t know. I always thought of it as more of a gurgle than a purr. You should hear him when he has a cold or something.”

“Right, which I do have! I should not be caring for drunk kittens!” 

“I don’t think he’s actually a kitten,” Athos says. “He’s a human being.”

“Yes but he’s soft!” Porthos says, and he very much sounds like he’s freaking out. Athos considers this, considers the facts at his disposal. 

“He maybe washed his hair,” he concludes. “It gets soft? Is he wearing a greeny blue jumper? That’s d’Artagnan’s expensive one, it is soft.”

“No he is not he’s wearing some hideous purple thing which no one has any right to look ok in! Also his white collar thing. Did he go get drunk dressed as a priest? He did. I think he did. And in this hideous purple thing.”

“Does it have floral print and a zip and horrible shiny material? Yeah, that’s a terrible jacket,” Athos agrees. “Don’t worry, most people have seen Aramis tipsy, they won’t think anything of it or hold it against him.”

“Athos!”

“Yeah?” Athos says, still bewildered by this phonecall. 

“What am I to do?!” Porthos wails. 

“Um. Well. If you have a blanket, he gets cold if he’s drunk and tired. You can always call d’Artagnan to come get him.”

“They had a fight,” Porthos say. “Also, not the issue! He’s soft!”

“Ok,” Athos says. “I can come get him if you’re worried about the fight but their fights tend to be quite pathetic really they’re both awful at it. d’Artagnan gets passionate and has a sharp tongue, but he gets so apologetic and worried afterwards. He’ll probably turn up at some point and try and smother Aramis in hugs and kisses and blankets and make him tea, if if was that sort of a fight.”

“He’s so beautiful,” Porthos whispers, and Athos suddenly sees the problem. His stomach drops. 

“Oh,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Porthos whispers. 

“Ok,” Athos says. It’s not the first time someone who liked him met Aramis and decided, actually, Aramis was the better pick. Aramis is tall and elegant and funny and charming, Athos is short and grouchy and sarcastic and wears the same jeans for a week. He hasn’t known Porthos that long, afterall, he’ll be fine. He bites his lip. 

“I mean they’re poly and anyway it’ll probably go away when he wakes up and opens his mouth he’s fairly annoying,” Porthos says. “But I didn’t know.”

“Ok,” Athos says again, closing his eyes. 

“I haven’t been in a relationship for… shit, I dunno, six years? Then it was a total shambles and he cheated on me so poly was never really a word I thought about. And Mum kind of sometimes had a thing going with Treville while she had boyfriends or partners or the woman she’s still seeing now, but I never really thought about it in terms of me. And that doesn’t even begin to cover what you think of it for you. And anyway finding one person beautiful because of the sun going down doesn’t mean I’m gonna suddenly be falling in love willy nilly all over the place, but I didn’t know it was even potentially a thing!”

“Ah,” Athos says, trying to just breathe easy, waiting for the guillotine to fall. He wishes Porthos would stop feeling guilty and just say it, nice and clearly. Then he could cheerfully say about not knowing Porthos long anyway and not minding and everything being ok. Everything’s fine. 

“I thought, you know,” Porthos says, voice soft and all full of Things. Feelings, probably. “I always thought once I felt something like this that’d be it, weddings and babies and what not. But I still feel… I feel… but there’s his face and he’s cradled against me and he’s… he’s very beautiful.”

“You want to marry him?” Athos asks, frowning. “That sounds like a lot to feel for an Aramis. He’s so flighty.”

Athos himself has briefly been in love with Aramis but decided that there was no way Aramis would be able to give him what he needed. Well, Aramis had sat down with him and gently explained how he did relationships and Athos had been slightly horrified. It sounded terrible. 

“Aramis? Marry Aramis? A lot to feel? He’s just pretty and warm and I have a cold and probably a fever, I mean, maybe, but I only just-” Porthos stops and goes silent. Athos waits, sighing. Here it comes. “Not ARAMIS you twat! I don’t mean Aramis. Athos, I was talking about you. You twat! Good god, man, have you ever met yourself? I mean, you just pissing got me drunk and you’re so funny and you have all this hair and the way you look at me and you just listen to me and you were so nice about Rosie and your hugs, oh lord what I wouldn’t do for one of those hugs. I was talking about you. I thought once I felt like this, that’d be it. Once I felt like this about you. Because I do. I mean I do feel. About you.”

“Oh,” Athos says. His eyes had popped open about the time he got called a ‘twat’ and now he blinks. “Oh. Me.”

“You,” Porthos agrees. “I don’t want to cheat on you Athos, I can’t cheat on you. I don’t want to hurt you. It was just a passing thought probably, but I worried. I have a fever. That is my defence.”

“You… you had a passing thought that someone was good looking and you rang me… to make sure I wasn’t hurt?” Athos asks, trying to get some clarity. 

“Exactly!” Porthos says, sounding pleased with himself for getting his point across. 

“You just called me to tell me you found someone else hot.”

“Should I not have? I don’t want to lie,” Porthos says. “We haven’t talked about any of this, about looking or thinking or what to do. I don’t even know if you’re interested in sex in general, or sex specifically with me, or sex. Or if you don’t want any kind of sex ever. Or if the thought of people looking nice is deeply offensive. I don’t know!”

“OK,” Athos says, a slow smile spreading over his face without his consent. Stupid thing. He tries to quell his facial muscles. They are too enthusiastic, what the heck? “Maybe next time lead with the clarity and then have the freak out. I don’t particularly mind if you think Aramis is the best thing since sliced bread. I think you’re a bit nutty for thinking all that about him, but go ahead. Oh and I definitely definitely am having sex with you. In the future.”

“Good to know,” Porthos says. 

“I’ll come over to your house now,” Athos decides, getting up. “We had better have a bit of a conversation. I’ll bring the whiskey.”

“Is whiskey-” 

“Conversations, therefore whiskey,” Athos says, firmly. “We can take Aramis home too, if he wants.”

“He’s asleep,” Porthos says, voice going soft. 

Athos snorts and hangs up so he can drive over. He only realises when he’s halfway there that he’s forgotten shoes. He’s wearing his thick woolly slipper socks over woolly socks and slippers over both pairs. He came out in the snow in his slippers. He sighs but doesn’t bother to go back. Porthos’s front door is open so he just goes in, taking off his wet slippers and heading through the dark kitchen to the light spilling out of the livingroom. Porthos is sat, his head back, fast asleep, and Aramis is curled up on top of him and around him. Both of them are snoring. d’Artagnan’s sat in the armchair playing on his phone. 

“Hi,” he says, not looking up. “Got here five mins ago, found them like that.”

“Porthos said you had a fight.”

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan says, scowling. “I want the baby. Aramis said he was worried and scared so I didn’t tell him details, I just got things rolling. Now he’s yelling and getting fall-down drunk and staggering to a near-stranger’s house and falling asleep on him.”

“Porthos might like him,” Athos says, sitting on the arm of the sofa. It might not be his secret to tell but, well… “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Eh, Aramis has been flirting,” d’Artagnan says, shrugging. “Even Aramis’s flirting gets noticed eventually. Even if it is almost identical to him just being charming.”

“Have you heard anything new? About the baby Jesus?”

“The baby - what?”

“It’s what Porthos called her. Miracle baby, Jesus,” Athos explains then waves it away. 

“Not much, they’re still looking. They thought it was Annie Jenkins’? But, no, her baby’s at home with her,” d’Artagnan says. “Aramis gave them info on the people around here but we hardly know everyone. The police think they’ll probably find her family, they usually do. Until then she’s got an emergency placement in Monmouth. I’ve been able to visit once and if everything clears we’ll be lined up to adopt her, or begin the process, if things fall out that way.”

“That’s good,” Athos says. 

d’Artagnan nods and runs a distracted hand through his hair, finally looking up from his phone. He sighs, and gives a small smile. He’s talked to Athos a bit about wanting children, about worrying he’s too young, about worrying that he won’t be able to get Aramis a baby, about worrying he won’t be good at parenting. Everyone seems to have baby angst. Athos wouldn’t mind them. Though, last time he spent more than an hour in the sole company of an under three it was mind-numbingly boring. He’d been babysitting for a colleague during class, the girl in question is now eight and much better company and Athos still sees her now and then if he’s up for a lecture series and they’re around. Athos gets the whiskey out, he brought glasses too but only two. He pours himself a measure and offers it to d’Artagnan, who refuses. Porthos wakes up halfway through the first glass. 

“Athos,” he says, on a sigh, leaning, sliding down the back of the sofa until his head rests on Athos’s thigh and sighing again, his breath ending on a series of coughs. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Athos says, resting a hand on Porthos’s head. “d’Artagnan showed.”

“‘kay. Haven’t seen you in ages,” Porthos says. 

“It’s been only just a week,” Athos says, sternly. He doesn’t mind really though, even if he is going to at some point have a conversation about needing alone time. “How’s the drama?”

“Fell asleep in defence against it,” Porthos says, yawning. He does sound sick. Athos touches his fingers against Porthos’s cheek. “You can’t tell fever like that.”

“Not checking for fever,” Athos says. “I’ve just seen Aramis do it lots when people aren’t well. I was trying to be nice and comforting in your moment of ailment. Whiskey? It’s scotch actually.”

Aramis wakes up, too, and he and d’Artagnan leave. Athos is sure there are farewells and talking but he ignores it and drinks his scotch and strokes Porthos’s hair and settles himself on the sofa-proper and generally just focuses on being comfortable and with Porthos. When they’re gone Athos sighs. 

“I thought you were dumping me, earlier,” he says. 

“Oh,” Porthos says. “Oops?”

“I’m not the best with communication,” Athos admits, stiff and quiet and hating to say it outloud. He knows he has weaknesses, but fuck his weaknesses. He’s a strong awesome man, fuck weakness.

“I will endeavour to be clear in future,” Porthos mumbles. “Next time. Shit, when did I get sick?”

“No idea,” Athos says, putting his feet up on the table. “Should I check for a fever? Be nurse maidish? Find a blanket? What is one supposed to do with sick people?”

“Care for them?” Porthos suggests. Athos’s stomach does the droppy thing again, hot and good this time, warmth suffusing him. He has permission. 

“Oh,” Athos breathes. “Ok. I can do that. I can do that.”

Porthos laughs, coughing a bit again. Athos gathers all his courage together and relaxes, reaching out to touch, to rub Porthos’s shoulder, to wrap an arm around his shoulder, to hold him a little, lifting his leg a nudge so Porthos tips more into him. He touches Porthos’s cheek again, not the way Aramis does but the way he’s always wanted to. He strokes Porthos’s forehead and touches his hair, his ear, traces the shapes of his face, wondering, touches the soft soft skin behind his ear. He lets himself look, lets himself. 

“Oh I can do that,” Athos says again, his facial muscles getting all ahead of themselves again and doing the smiling thing. He looks around the room and wriggles out from under Porthos. 

He puts the kettle on and finds a blanket and some paracetamol and a thermometer in the bathroom upstairs and brings everything to the livingroom, wrapping Porthos up and taking his temperature, making him tea, making him take paracetamol for his fever. When all that’s done he considers things, then goes to look for a hot water bottle. He can’t find one but he fills up an empty litre-bottle that had fizzy water in, hot water and a bit of cold so it is warm but not boiling, and space and air out so it doesn’t explode. He wraps it in a jumper and carries it through. 

“There’s a hot water bottle somewhere,” Porthos mumbles, laughing at Athos’s improvisation efforts. “You are way over the top.”

“Oh,” Athos says, disappointed. He’d thought he’d done pretty good. 

“I like it,” Porthos says. “I like fuss. Obviously. More fuss please.”

Athos smiles and gets back on the sofa so Porthos can use him as a pillow. He goes back to stroking and rubbing and touching, trying to be comforting, thrilling with the permission to fuss, to care, to keep watch over Porthos. He puts the TV on and keeps an eye on Porthos, keeps a good careful watch, responding to each little restlessness or pained noise or cough. Porthos is right, he is over the top, too much. He’s too intense. He should relax and chill out a bit, but Porthos said it was ok to fuss, to take care of him. Athos can do that, both those ‘that’s. He settles down a bit and his heart slows back and Porthos makes a content, happy sound. 

“Do you want to eat?” Athos asks, later. Porthos has been dozing, Athos has been watching cooking shows and drinking scotch. 

“God yes please I’m starving.”

“That’s a good sign. Um, do you have food? I can cook,” Athos says. “I’m pretty good at it.”

“Just order a pizza or something,” Porthos grumbles. “Don’t do stupid things like moving.”

“Alright,” Athos agrees. 

There’s not actually anywhere that’ll deliver out here but he calls the pub and after some negotiation of shifts Kimberly, who’s on bar, agrees to drive out. Athos gets some soup but Porthos eats everything but the soup so Athos is left to eat it. He sticks it in the freezer instead. Who wants soup? What a daft idea. 

“Bed?” He suggests, when he’s done clearing up. 

Porthos is sat up and awake but he’s also slumped against the sofa cushions and he looks halfway back asleep already. He nods. Porthos has a nice bed. Athos sinks into it and wrangles Porthos into a cuddle - Porthos hadn’t minded that a bit last time they slept together. Next time they sleep together they should have sex. Athos runs his hands over Porthos’s body, pressing a kiss to his temple, pausing to ask permission before touching in a more intimate way than comforting. 

“I’m just gonna go to sleep but go ahead,” Porthos says. “I like it.”

He hum as Athos explores, enjoying the warmth and shift of Porthos, the sighs and breaths against his shoulder and chest as he finds sensitive places. Porthos seems half aroused but not very much. He doesn’t seem embarrassed or worried about it so Athos doesn’t worry either, just lets it be. It feels unbearably vulnerable, to be like this, for this to not be sex or sexual. Athos breathes carefully around the fragility and fear and breathes into it, breathes. Porthos falls asleep, and Athos relaxes, holding onto him, pressing kisses to his skin, his hair, holding him. He still feels vulnerable and everything is brittle, but Porthos’s arm is heavy across his waist and Porthos is so relaxed and trusting. Athos breathes around it until the brittle scared feeling unclenches in him and everything unravels, leaving him limp and heady and tipsy with relief and affection and, probably, scotch. Probably the scotch. He falls asleep with a smile on his face, amused at himself. He wakes with a scowl though to his phone ringing. He’s got to start losing it and forgetting to charge it again. He’d got into the habit, with the snow and keeping in touch with Porthos, of actually answering and paying attention to the thing. 

“What?” he growls, putting in plenty of gravel and grouch. 

“de Foix. Found the family. Fleur Boudin.”

“Shit,” Athos says. “Does her father know?”

“Knows shit all as ever. Her grandma was caring for the babe but she’s creeping up on ninety and couldn’t manage. Couldn’t ask for help, had to keep it secret. Eventually she admitted it to Fleur who knew we were looking,” de Foix says. 

“What’s going to happen?” Athos asks. 

“Fleur wants to be part of her life. You know the family?”

“Constance’s cousins, her ex husband’s anyway. She was close with Fleur. Yeah, I know them, what’s Fleur going to do?”

“No idea, her father’s blue with rage as you can imagine. He’s a good man but Jesus his misogyny is toxic,” de Foix grumbles. 

“She can have the spare up at mine, I’ll call her,” Athos says, yawning. “‘kay. You think she’ll come to an agreement with ‘mis and Charlie?”

“With a bit of arbitration and time, yeah,” de Foix says. “She’s nineteen, old enough, technically, if she wants to raise the kid, but she’s doing a foundation at the art college and wants to do their photography degree too.”

“I know. Ok. Bye.” Athos rings Fleur and she picks up in tears, sobbing into the phone. “Don’t you worry a bit. Constance would dangle me by my ankle if I did anything but support you whole-heartedly. Not that I’d do anything else.”

Fleur keeps on crying and Porthos, dead to the world up till now, shifts and coughs and turns on his side. Athos pays a bit of attention to him, frowning at the sheen of sweat, the groan when he shifts again, the catch of breath before more, rougher, coughs. 

“I was a young woman once too, remember,” Athos says, absently. “I’ve got your back. I’ve got the spare room, you’re welcome to that till you find somewhere.”

Eventually Fleur talks and accepts the room and cries some more and then goes. Athos breathes a sigh of relief. That was a lot of emotion early in the morning. He’ll probably get a call from Constance though and now he can be in her good books over things. Porthos’s face twists and Athos, deciding that yes he is having a nightmare, gently wakes him up. 

“Oh,” Porthos says, sounding still distressed. Athos kissing his forehead and soothes him a bit. Porthos holds his arm and presses a kiss to his wrist. “I’m ok I’m ok. Thanks.” 

“Your fever seems worse.”

“I’m ok,” Porthos says again. “Just a fever.”

“I’m fussing, not worrying,” Athos says, testing a theory. Porthos relaxes in a little flood of tears and presses close to Athos, shivering. “Better.”

“I’m ok,” Porthos says, yet again, snuffly and unsteady this time. “Just a bit scared when I have a fever.”

“That’s fine,” Athos says. “I will keep you safe.”

“Surprisingly reassuring that,” Porthos whispers. Then he moans and presses closer still. Athos pulls him in and wraps the duvet firmly around him, holding him carefully. “Ugh, feel gross.”

“You’ll be well soon,” Athos promises. “Aramis and d’Artagnan are probably going to get to keep the baby. I think Fleur will not approve of ‘Jesus’ I’m afraid. She might like Leah. I thought of her as Golda,” Athos whispers the last. “She is a little bit of gold.”

“They’re keeping Jesus?” Porthos mumbles, already going back to sleep, clinging to Athos but seeming happy enough. 

“Yeah,” Athos says, kissing his head. “They’re keeping Jesus.”


	9. Chapter 9

There’s still snow on the fields, near Athos’s. It’s been a while but it’s still hanging on in clumps where it was blown to deep drifts, and where it was packed down hard by people walking, and in shadows where the sun doesn’t get. It’s not the clean white anymore, nothing dazzling or bewitching, just dirty, slippy hulks. It is surreal, driving home, the radio on playing some drowsy indi thing, the familiar landscape passing in defamiliarized patterns, the colours new and different. Porthos is big and warm beside him, Athos is driving slower than usual because Porthos is resting his head on Athos’s shoulder. He’d sat upright for a while and tried leaning the other way, but this is all that’s comfortable and Athos doesn’t mind. It’s harder to drive but not unsafe and it’s making everything odd and different. Porthos’s breathing close, his fever radiating heat, his thick soft jumper. Athos turns carefully onto his drive and inches down, watching for new potholes, for ice. There’s Fleur’s scooter in the drive, he remembers he meant to tell her about the tarp in the shed for it as he spots it, her push bike’s probably in the shed and she might have seen the tarp but maybe not. Athos parks neatly beside the baby-blue scooter with black flames, and puts on the handbreak. 

“We’re here,” he tells Porthos. 

“Mm, I know,” Porthos murmurs. “You’re warm.”

“Warmer inside. I’ve got a sofa to stretch out on. Blankets. Cosy things.”

Porthos hums, contemplating, then agrees that sounds better. Athos gets out and goes around to haul Porthos out, looping an arm around his waist. He’s not unsteady per se, just a little woozy. Athos is half worried about him but Porthos keeps on offering assurance that he’s fine, just tired, just sick. Athos chooses to believe him. He had to come home to make sure his pig’s ok and fed (Fleur might do it, if he reminded her every time it needed to be done, but he only remembers because of proximity and habit half the time), he hadn’t much liked the idea of Porthos being alone and sick and neither had Porthos so they’re migrating. Porthos is clutching a gym bag, he wouldn’t let Athos help him pack so Athos has no idea what he’s brought, hopefully pyjamas. Though, he’s wearing pyjamas, so that’s not key. 

“Keys. Damn it. Why did I stop keeping my front door key on the same fob as the car keys?” Athos mutters, coming to a standstill. “Oh wait, Fleur’s here, she never locks anything.”

“Nor do you,” Porthos says. Which he shouldn’t know yet, that’s too much Athos-knowledge for such a short period of time. Porthos coughs roughly, sighing afterwards. “Can we go inside? I’m cold.”

“Sorry,” Athos says, shaking himself. 

He settles Porthos on the sofa with blankets, the remote, and a cup of tea, then heads out to check the pig. And, if he’s honest with himself, to get some time alone. He was at Porthos’s last time and then the drama of this morning and finding out about Fleur, and Porthos wants to be close. It’s not bad, Athos likes curling up together like two entwined quavers. It’s nice outside, some fresh air, even if it is freezing. He has to break ice off Aramis jr’s trough. He puts the heater on in there for a bit, hoping he hasn’t made her too cold already and last night was ok. She seems happy, big and fat and hungry. She’s beginning to show signs of pregnancy, which is awesome. Athos feeds Aramis jr then leans on the gate, giving her treats. 

“We’re going to get a kitten for out here,” Athos tells Aramis jr, scritching her back. “A mouser, keep you company and be a proper barn. Not one of d’Art and Aramis’s soft little house-kittens, we’ll get a proper furball from the farm up on the hill.” Aramis snuffles and grunts and roots about in the straw for dropped treats. “Porthos is sick. He’d have come to see you otherwise, he likes you.”

Athos smiles and leaves Aramis jr to her dinner, heading back to the house. He peeks in on Porthos, finds him napping, and goes upstairs to tap on the door of the spare room. He thinks Fleur’s probably in, one of her friends might have been by to pick her up but the house feels like someone’s in it. He knocks again. Fleur eventually comes to the door, cheeks a bit flushed and eyes a bit pink. 

“Sorry, I had headphones on, took me a minute to place the noise,” Fleur says. 

“You’re not sick too, are you?” Athos says. 

“No. Who’s sick? Oh, I’ve just been crying,” Fleur says, giving a wavering smile. “I didn’t get to hold her, you know, but they let me at her foster placement.”

“Porthos is sick. Do you want to talk? I actually came to offer you dinner. Porthos seems to be as hungry sick as he is healthy,” Athos says. He’s bewildered by that. When he’s sick he likes to eat nothing at all thank you very much. Porthos just keeps on asking for pizza.

“Food would be good. I could cook?” Fleur offers, not looking sure about that. 

“I’m making a freezer pizza or something,” Athos says. “Not much to it. You can do a meal in a few days?”

“Ok,” Fleur says. “Thank you for the room, you really don’t have to feed me too.”

“My house is your house. Or, anyway, Constance has decided that what I own is hers and would be very unforgiving if I turned her favourite cousin away from her house,” Athos says. 

Fleur’s smile brightens and softens at the mention of Constance, and she’s a hundred percent unworried by his hospitality really being Constance’s. She seems reassured by it, even. Athos is glad, he smiles back gently as he can. 

“I think it’s all going to be ok,” Fleur says, looking worriedly up at him like he has answers. 

“Yes,” he says firmly. “It’s going to be wonderful. Your baby will be loved, no matter what, and you are obviously loved too.”

“Thank you,” Fleur says. “I was talking to Constance, earlier, she says she’ll come home. I feel guilty about that.”

“Oh she was on her way anyway, she was getting bored. Just needed a kick up the arse,” Athos says. “Um, I’ll get dinner on. Call up to you when it’s done.”

Fleur thanks him with those big heartfelt eyes again and Athos hurries away to cook, grabbing his ipad from the bedroom on the way and Facetiming Constance so he can growl at her for filling his house with strays and for telling Other People she’s coming home before she informed him and other growly things. She just gossips at him and gives him a stern talking to about feeding Fleur. When he says he’s already on it she gives him the biggest beaming smile and he has to sit down he misses her so much. 

“When are you back?” he asks.

“Honestly? I gave my notice a week back, so, end of next week,” Constance says. “I was missing home! Aramis’s family are lovely though, I met his Abuelita! And his mother and brother of course but they’ve been to England so I met them before.”

Athos settles in to listen to more gossip but before Constance can really launch into things he hears Porthos shuffling along the hall coughing. He gets up and puts the kettle on and Constance buggers off while he’s not paying attention. He gets a message from her saying her signal’s crap, he’s not paying enough attention to her, she loves him, and she’ll be home soon. Porthos comes in and takes a seat, putting his head down on his arms on the table. 

“Why are you up?” Athos says, sternly, hands on his hips. 

“I’m hungry,” Porthos says, muffled. 

“I’m making pizza,” Athos says. “What kind of tea do you want? I think Roiboos might be nice.”

Athos meanders about tea as he potters about making some (he goes for chamomile in the end, it seems more a sick person thing. Porthos says it tastes like flowers) and finishing up dinner. They eat at the table, Porthos drooping and half asleep, Fleur awkward and shy, Athos watching them both. He sends Fleur to bed after and takes Porthos, gathering a hot water bottle and another mug of tea on his way. Porthos lies in the middle of the bed, complains about it not being his bed, decides he’d better go home, and then falls asleep. Athos drinks the tea. He does take Porthos home the next day, his fever rising a bit and making him tearful and afraid, clinging to Athos like a child. He doesn’t really want much to eat, he just wants to lie in his own bed, with Athos, curling close and sweating through his clothes and coughing and crying. He calls his mum while Athos uses the bathroom and makes himself something to eat, Athos comes back up to find Porthos up, standing by the window, chastising his reflection for not dropping everything and coming to see him. 

“I will come visit you, I promise,” a voice says from the window sill. Athos gets on tiptoes to see over Porthos’s shoulder and sees his phone. “Am I telling you about Rosie?”

“No,” Porthos says, sniffing back some tears, pulling Athos’s arm around himself. Athos squeaks, surprised. “You’re coming here, now.”

“No, no! Patrick don’t you dare, I saw what happened,” Marie-Cessette says. “I know, Tommy, I saw. Come here and talk to Porthos, he’s upset too.”

“Hi Tommy,” Porthos whispers. 

“Hi Porthos,” someone small-sounding whispers back. Athos can see Porthos smiling. 

“How’s school?” Porthos asks. 

“It’s school,” Tommy says. 

“What did Pat do?” Porthos asks. 

“Pushed me,” Tommy says. 

“Aww. Just a bit of rough and tumble, eh? Bit too much of the rough?” Porthos asks. 

“Yeah,” Tommy says. 

“Alright. Patrick’s going to be doing the dishes tonight instead of you, Tom, he offered. He’s sorry, he’s going to come apologise in a minute. Thanks Porthos,” Marie-Cessette says. “If you need me, I’ll come. Always.”

“I know. I’m ok,” Porthos says. “Athos is here, he’s taking good care of me. We’re taking a bit of care for a friend, I told you we found Baby Jesus’s Mum? She’s Fleur, not Mary, but they’re both flowers.”

“Mary isn’t a flower,” Athos says. 

“Mary Mary quite contrary,” Porthos sings, then laughs, then coughs. 

“Alright, my little limpet. If you have someone else to cling on to I am glad,” Marie-Cessette says. “And I’m glad that baby has found some love in the world, love is worth everything.”

“I know,” Porthos says. “It’s always worth loving someone.”

“Exactly! Now go to bed and get well,” Marie-Cessette says. “Athos? His fevers go high, but they’re not dangerous most of the time, just some rest and he should be fine.”

“Thank you,” Athos says. 

Porthos says his goodbyes and Athos coaxes him back to bed for more sleeping and sweating and crying. Porthos isn’t sick for long. Athos is glad because while he likes watching over Porthos and being allowed to take care of him, he’s beginning to get restless sleeping in the same bed, so close and intimate, without being able to do anything. He wakes up the third morning though, Porthos’s fever having broken the evening before, to Porthos kissing him in a very nice manner. Athos sighs and lies back, moving his head to deepen it, the fuzzy morning feeling and the thrill of Porthos and everything coalescing to make him fizz. Porthos gives a truly dirty chuckle and presses his thigh against Athos’s erection and Athos opens his eyes to glare until the kissing starts again. For their first sex it goes very nicely, Athos considers. He likes being touched and touching, likes tingling all over, likes kissing and likes Porthos’s mouth against his skin everywhere. He likes the way Porthos strokes his side and stomach, likes the way Porthos cradles his face and hums and gasps. Porthos is noisy. He’s a little too gentle but Athos doesn’t mind. He smiles, afterwards, Porthos panting and sticky beside him. 

“I think polyamorous will work very nicely for us,” Athos murmurs, pressing kisses to Porthos. Porthos slaps his chest and gets up on an elbow to glare, then huffs and flops down again. 

“You broke me,” he grumbles. “What a thing to say right after making love. Stop giggling at me.”

“Making love,” Athos repeats, making it dramatic. “It’s ok that’s fine. You were wonderful.”

“Yeah, I was.”

“I was just thinking,” Athos says, laughing, wrapping around Porthos to soothe his bad temper. “I like you, you’re wonderful, that was fantastic, I loved it. We must do much much more of that. But.”

“But?! Seriously, you are asking for a thump! Athos!”

“Stop squawking at me,” Athos says. “Are you really going to want to tie me up, to hurt me? You are very gentle.”

“You could’ve asked!” Porthos says. “Wait, were you asking for a thumping?”

“Shut up,” Athos says, laughing. “I like being submissive, I want to… submit… to you. But I want you to be gentle and kind, I like it.”

“Ok,” Porthos says. “Fine. Poly. Whatever.”

“Are you actually upset?”

“What a time to bring it up!” Porthos says, biting Athos’s shoulder. Athos’s body reacts without his permission. 

“Um.”

“Jesus,” Porthos grumbles. “You’re terrible at this. I am making a declaration: you are TERRIBLE. You are no longer allowed to talk.”

“Fine by me,” Athos says, rolling over on top of Porthos. “No,” he kisses between Pothos’s shoulder blades, admiring the muscles there, “more,” he licks and kisses over Porthos’s neck, bites his ear, “talking.”

“Jesus H fucking Christ,” Porthos says. 

They have more sex, and it is rougher this time, Porthos is genuinely irritable and Athos enjoys the sharpness of that, the short way Porthos deals with him. He’s still gentle and respectful. Athos falls onto his back after, gasping for breath, entirely too tingley to do anything or talk. 

“Good,” Porthos mutters. “No talking.”

He goes to sleep again, and Athos gets up and sings while he makes coffee, does a few twirls. He had forgotten how much he likes sex. It’s so enjoyable and makes him happy. Sex with Porthos, he can already tell, is going to be brilliant. Porthos eventually wakes up and comes down, still in pyjamas. He still looks a little poorly so Athos makes him tea and toast and feels his forehead. 

“Sorry,” Athos says, sitting at the dining table tucking into eggs and bacon. 

“How can you eat bacon anymore, with Aramis?” Porthos asks, looking at Athos’s plate. “Also it’s fine. What made you think of it then, though? Was it… bad?”

“Nope it was truly great and you are very good at it,” Athos says, feeling breezy and light and easy. “I was just thinking about how brilliant it’d be to… I don’t really know, I was just thinking how nice it would be to have you and to think about other people while you were there and holding me, and to think of you while… I was just enjoying myself and thinking of all the nice things. I like sex, Porthos. I really like sex.”

“Ok,” Porthos says, sounding bewildered. “That doesn’t sound bad, or like you didn’t like it or me. Or I did things bad.”

“You were lovely,” Athos assures. “I didn’t mean to worry you, I’m just… happy.”

“You’re happy with me so you were thinking about other people.”

“Sex is a great communicator,” Athos says, smiling. “I just felt I had got clarity all of a sudden. Do you want to have sex with Aramis?”

“God,” Porthos mutters, planting his head in his hands on the table. Then he nods. 

“Excellent. Let’s talk to him.”

“You want sex with him?” Porthos asks, still hidden in his hands. 

“Good god no,” Athos says. “I’d like to hear about you having sex with him, though, and to think about it, and to talk to you about it and to you about him and what you like and to watch you flirt. I think I need his consent for all that.”

“For sure,” Porthos agrees. 

“What about d’Artagnan? Oh you’re going to love Constance. Her I don’t need to hear about,” Athos says, laughing. “We should Facetime her!”

“Are you drunk?”

“On sex,” Athos says, scrambling up and kissing Porthos’s neck and trailing his fingers across his shoulders, resting against his skin. “You’re so athletic, I liked that.”

“Ok,” Porthos says. 

Athos sits beside him and leans into him and gets distracted kissing him and stroking his chest and just by him. He rests his head on Porthos’s shoulder and relaxes, smiling.

“Do I have to sleep with all your friends?” Porthos asks.

“No, you can do as you please. I was trying to be welcoming,” Athos says. 

“You are a very odd person,” Porthos says. 

A week later he turns up at Athos’s crying, after Facetiming Flea, and then a week after that he comes downstairs (Athos and Aramis and d’Artagnan are drinking wine after dinner, Porthos got a phonecall and retreated) looking a bit odd. Athos nudges the chair beside him and Porthos sits there instead of returning to the one by Aramis. 

“Just saw Rose. I think we’re good,” he says. 

“Oh! Baby jesus!” d’Artagnan says, perking up excitedly. 

“She’s called January,” Aramis says. 

“She’s what?” Athos says. 

“January. We’ve talked to Fleur and a lawyer and we think it’ll be good. Fleur and I get along well, we’ve had some conversations, we think we can work it out,” Aramis says. 

“You’re gonna be Dads?!” Porthos cries, and goes to get a bottle of… sherry. “It’s all I’ve got, I don’t keep much alcohol in the house.”

Athos gets apple juice instead and they toast with that and eat chocolate cake and talk way too late for a weekday night. Athos goes home afterwards, catching looks between Aramis and Porthos. He’ll talk to Aramis soon, but Porthos had better talk first. Yeah. It’ll be best if Porthos does his thing and then Athos has a conversation with Aramis. Athos sighs, sprawled on the sofa, so happy.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this chapter is way longer, sorry. This is the end, lots of ... end. I thought maybe there was a plot somewhere, but, apparently not. WARNINGS in end note as per

Aramis slips into the house, letting himself in with his keys. Porthos just dropped him home, it’s nearly one am. Aramis tiptoes up to the bedroom and undresses quietly. He and d’Artagnan need to probably have another therapy session before things progress further anywhere in his life, and d’Artagnan isn’t so likely to wait up.

 

“I’m awake,” d’Artagnan mumbles, not really sounding it. Aramis crawls in with him and is welcomed. “Are we good, Aramis? We’re ok?”

 

“We’re great,” Aramis soothes. “We’ll talk with Agnes, yeah? Get our fears and stuff out from this chaos. Untangle everything.”

 

“Ok,” d’Artagnan says. “What did Porthos want? I’m tired, Jesus.”

 

“Sorry,” Aramis says, shifting so he’s holding d’Artagnan and kissing his hair. “I love you. I can tell you in the morning?”

 

“No, go ahead.”

 

“He wants to… something. He said I should talk to Athos. I think I might’ve been propositioned but I’m not sure. He gets really incoherent when he’s nervous,” Aramis says. “He definitely wants something.”

 

“And you?”

 

“I want to lick him,” Aramis says. d’Artagnan laughs. “We’ll talk with Agnes.”

 

“You could just talk to me,” d’Artagnan says.

 

“But you’re hurt and weirdly jealous and there’s all sort knotted up in you, and I don’t want to accidentally make it worse,” Aramis says. “I’m not good at this, my love, we know this. We’ve got experience of how shitty I am when things go a bit haywire. I know I’ve been shitty to you recently, I need help with that though.”

 

“Ok,” d’Artagnan says. It doesn’t really sound ok.

 

“I can’t do it,” Aramis whispers. “I don’t understand any of it. There’s a baby, and there was… and my chest hurts so that’s an emotion,” he frowns, trying to unknot some of it for d’Artagnan. “Porthos is lovely. I feel weirdly drawn to him. He calls me kitten sometimes apparently I purr.”

 

“He’s told me,” d’Artagnan mumbles. “He’s told everyone I think.”

 

“Hopefully not _everyone._ He wants a cat, his niece is coming down to visit soon apparently and he absolutely a hundred percent needs a kitten for her.”

 

“‘kay, they’re old enough.”

 

“He wants one of AJ’s piglets too,” Aramis says, laughing. “I told him it’s not really a housepet and explained about AJ being a runt but he’s adamant. He’s keeping a pig in his kitchen. Athos apparently approved this plan. I think he’s trolling Portos.”

 

“He’s so easy about ‘countryside stuff’,” d’Artagnan says. He sounds happier. “I like Porthos, he is lovely.”

 

“Oh, do you want him too? He could come in with both of us, I wouldn’t mind that _at all_ ,” Aramis says.

 

“Shh. Go slow, see what happens,” d’Artagnan says. “Talk to Agnes. You’re bad at this.”

 

“I am,” Aramis agrees, sighing. “I’m sorry. I know I love you. Bonkers amounts.”

 

“Good!”

 

“I feel… fragile, I think,” Aramis says. “I don’t know. I might throw up.”

 

“It’s ok lovely boy,” d’Artagnan murmurs, voice softening and deepening, shifting so he’s holding Aramis again. “I’ve got you. We’re fine, I love you too. We’ll sort all the knots in you and in me. I know this is really hard for you. I’ve been married to you for too many years.”

 

“I just need a little help,” Aramis whispers.

 

“Nothing wrong with that at all,” d’Artagnan says. “It’s a wonderfully healthy thing.”

 

Aramis breathes a sigh of relief. To his surprise d’Artagnan offers to pray with him and even whispers the words along, into Aramis’s ear. It’s intimate and close and non-sexual, and very comforting. Aramis manages to fall asleep and is only sick once the next day. They see Agnes later in the week, and Aramis weeps afterwards until he thinks he’s going to melt away. d’Artagnan just holds him again, letting him flood out all the twisted up grief and fear and pain. All the ache that’s been sitting in him. They see Agnes a few more times, and the lawyer with Fleur. She comes for dinner a few times and then, finally, Constance comes home.

***

 

Porthos has taken to sitting in the back to the church, sometimes, when Aramis is taking a service. Neither Athos or d’Artagnan had been able to tell him anything about Aramis’s sermons, neither of them had gone to one for absolute years. Porthos was brought up Catholic and he enjoys his faith, when he has time for it. Though, he's hardly a great beliverb. It's justjalways been made warm and safe and comforting him and it's sosnicento sink into. He finds comfort in God. His mother did so much to make her religion friendly and welcoming to him as he discovered his queerness and had helped him explore it - it had deepened his connection with God, his understanding of his father, his relationship with his mother. Sitting in church listening Aramis is just a warm, emotional, wonderful thing. Aramis is eloquent and smart, funny, moving. He’s a wonderful preacher and puts in plenty of singing which Porthos joins in enthusiastically. He comes to hug Porthos afterwards before talking to his parishioners.

 

“You made such a face when I asked you about religion,” Aramis says, flopping down in the pew with Porthos when they’re alone. “I was sure you were anti.”

 

“I’m anti nothing,” Porthos says, then grins. “I’m not really religious. I love it, I grew up with it, it’s a huge part of me. I grew away from it in my twenties and never quite embraced it again but it’s a good part of my life. You were just super nosey and very annoying.”

 

“I’m still super nosey and very annoying,” Aramis says, resting his head back against Porthos’s arm where it’s resting on the back of the pew. “Constance is home, have you met her yet? Apparently she’s come back with a teacher she met out there, from London. Sylvie something?”

 

“They were at Athos’s for dinner the other night,” Porthos says. “Them and Fleur and someone called Ninon?”

 

“She’s down? She’s a Londoner too, friend of Constance’s. Fleur worships her,” Aramis says.

 

“Mm, noticed,” Porthos says. “Lots of women. Athos was subsumed.”

 

“Ha! He does rather embrace his femininity among that lot,” Aramis says.

 

“Aramis, I haven’t worn anything femme, since I came down here,” Porthos says. “Rosie’s coming. She’s used to dressing up with me, she likes doing my nails and ‘making my face sparkle’. She’s already got great plans for our fancy dinner nights.”

 

“You don’t have to do anything, if that’s not part of you anymore,” Aramis says. He sounds like he’s in priest-mode. Porthos squirms.

 

“I just dunno what people will says,” Porthos mumbles. “Don’t want Rosie to see… to hear… She has, I was careful back home but she’s seen it. Can’t not. I’m a mixed race, femme, trans, cross dressing gender fucker, hardly blend in.”

 

“Don’t restrain yourself. If you want backup, We’ll show up looking glam. d’Artagnan drags up a treat, he’s a right pretty girl, and I don’t actually wear jeans and dark jumpers that are too big my whole life you’ve only known me in depression winter mode. I’m a summer person, I like sunshine. Soon I will flourish,” Aramis says. “Uh, I have plenty of feminine things, so does Athos, is my point. Plenty of queers around here, we’ve got your back.”

 

“OK,” Porthos says, still not happy. He does feel more secure though. He breathes a little easier and his shoulders relax. “I miss tights.”

 

Aramis laughs, then goes speculative, eyes going glazed. Porthos grins. Aramis has told him how much he likes his thighs. They’ve done lots of talking and flirting and imagining, with Athos and without him. They’re doing things nice and slow, Aramis talks to his therapist or something, Porthos is fine with this. It’s nice. It’s good. Things are good.

 

“How is January?” Porthos says.

 

“She’s so big and healthy,” Aramis says, brightening up.

 

He talks about his baby for the next half hour before remember he’s due to baptise someone else’s baby and rushes off. Baby January (and Athos is right, what a name) is still with her foster placement in Monmouth but Aramis, d’Artagnan and Fleur all have lots of supervised visitation and as soon as they come up with at least a preliminary agreement she’ll be moved to d’Artagnan and Aramis. Porthos knows the process, has been on the foster side of it. Nothing sudden, everything routine and careful and supervised and scrutinized, but it won’t take forever. He heads home, opting to take the long walk rather than two busses. Flea is coming down with Rosie tomorrow, that being Friday, so he should get as much work out of the way today, and he’s Facetiming Athos later. Athos doesn’t always want to see each other as much as Porthos would like but he’s happy to Facetime and text and give Porthos time and attention these other ways. Porthos has found hehdoesn’t actually mind too much, it’s peaceful to both have company and support, and still have his own space. He can get used to it. 

 

Flea and Rosie arrive at half past five. Porthos offered to collect them from the station as Flea doesn’t have a car, borrowing the Volvo from Athos or hiring a car or something, but Flea had said no. Porthos frowns, waiting on the doorstep out of eagerness, when a little white car draws up in his drive and Flea climbs out. She waves and goes to open the back and Porthos is distracted from his questions (Flea doesn’t even have a licence) because Rosie’s scrambling out of her seat and the car and falling all over herself to get to Porthos, yelling his name and racing into his arms to be lifted up and held. She bursts into tears and clings around his neck and he cries too. He tries not to but there’s no help for it really. He manages a laugh and to kiss her and to rub her back and carry her inside, into his livingroom, keeping her close but so they’re curled up all scrambled together not clinging. He can see her this way. Her somehow-blonde hair and her funny eyes and sticky out ears, her freckles.

 

“Are you good, bean?” he asks. “Are you good? You’re good?”

 

“Yep,” she says. “I have a nice room at my Mum’s and lots more toys than at yours and we have chips! I get chips for tea and toast for breakfast and I go to the playground and on the swings and my Mum takes me to Gramma’s and Gramma says hello and to give some kisses I’ll do that in a minute she makes really nice cookies that I  sneak LOTS of just how you taught me.”

 

“Good,” Porthos says.

 

“And in…” Rosie carefully counts out seven fingers, “this many months I’m going to go to a school I’m going to have a uniform and I’ll have lots of friends, lots of other kids, and I have already met a teacher there and someone who lives in a flat near by my Mum’s is also going so we have friends she has a dog my Mum says you have a kitten Ro.”

 

No one calls him ‘Ro’, he’d forgotten that. She couldn’t say his name and then when she was bigger she called them Ro and Rosie and sung Mary Mary Quite Contrary rhymes about them being all in a row and Row Ro Rosie your boat and all kinds of silly things.

 

“Uh,” Porthos says, struck slightly dumb.

 

“Kittens Porthos,” Rosie says, wriggling just a tiny bit, staying relaxed against him still.

 

She’s longer than she used to be, bigger. Her legs are so long. Porthos scoops all of her up and carries her like a baby, her laughing wildly, upstairs. His kitten tends to hide in his bedroom, sure enough he’s curled up on the bed, purring. He’s like a black and brown puddle, a weird mudge of tabby and black cat and just who knew what.

 

“He purrs even when he’s alone,” Porthos says, still vaguely bewildered by the tiny animal. “I’m getting a piglet too. This is called Mr Aramis Herbs, and the piglet is going to be called Mux Priest.”

 

“That’s a long name Mr Aramis Herbs,” Rosie says, getting out of his arms and climbing on the bed, curling around the cat. “He’s very tiny for a long name but it’s ok I like the name Porthos you can keep the name. Aw he’s still purring come listen. Be quavers with us.”

 

Quavers, the curly crisps, meaning she wants him to curl around her. He does, letting her chatter on, shutting his eyes and crying just a little bit. He’ll be happy to see her soon, just for a little while he wants to miss her and remember having her. She gets bored eventually and Mr Aramis Herbs wakes up; she follows the kitten back downstairs and sits on the livingroom floor to play with her. Porthos smiles, lets go wanting her and is just glad to see her. He goes looking for Flea, and finds her and another woman in the kitchen sat at the dining table drinking tea and eating bowls of pasta.

 

“Made yourself at home I see,” Porthos says, turning a chair and sitting on it backwards.

 

“Well you did nothing in that direction,” Flea say. “Also: yeah I did. Also: weird house why carpet in the kitchen? Also: you need food.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, then raises an eyebrow at the stranger.

 

“Oh right, Elodie, Porthos, Porthos, Elodie. She brought her baby, Marie, hope that’s ok great thanks.”

 

Porthos looks around for a baby.

 

“She’s sleeping, I left her in the hallway, it’s quieter,” Elodie says, smiling. “Sorry for barging in, Florence said it would be ok?”

 

Porthos howls with laughter. He’d forgotten Flea’s name was Florence, she always hated it. Right now she’s glaring daggers at him and that only intensifies when Rosie runs in to see what’s so funny and climbs into Porthos’s lap tugging his hair to try and get him to tell.

 

“I don’t get the joke,” Elodie says.

 

“I use it now,” Flea snaps. “I can hardly apply for jobs as fucking Flea, can I?”

 

“Oh,” Elodie says. “Your nickname?”

 

“I may have… fudged the truth,” Flea says, blushing. “I haven’t really been called Florence since I was six and knocked three of Porthos’s teeth out for doing it.”

 

“Two were baby teeth,” Porthos says, baring his teeth and pointing out the fake one. “She was vi-oh-lant! This scar is from her headbutting me,” he shows the little one at his hairline then rolls up his shirt sleeve, “this is one where she pushed me down into some glass.”

 

“I meant to do neither of those ones!” Flea protests.

 

“Mama did them?” Rosie asks, concerned, kissing first his head then his arm. Oops. Porthos meets Flea’s eyes and they make faces at each other. Porthos chuckles.

 

“Yeah bean, by accident,” Porthos says, kissing Rosie’s hair. “We were playing. I think I knocked her down as much as she did me, just rough and tumble.”

 

“Rough and tumble,” Rosie says, nodding, enunciating. “I am not to rough and tumble with baby Marie because she’s tiny but it’s ok if she bites me she gets away with everything she pulls my hair and hit me even and she kicked me in the mouth all because she’s littler is my Mum littler than you?”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, smiling a bit soft. Rosie nods and runs off back to the cat. “She still does… she still says ‘my Mum’?”

 

“She’s been using Mama a bit,” Flea says. “Sometimes she slips and it’s just ‘mum’. She’s reverting, with you, I think.”

 

“Sounds legit,” Porthos says. “You think she’s worried about things?”

 

“Yes,” Flea snaps.

 

“You want me to avoid anything, talk about anything, not say anything?” Porthos says, and Flea softens, wincing.

 

“Yeah, no. I know you’ll do right by me and make it easy on her,” Flea mutters. “Christ this is awkward as fuck. Ok, moving on. Pasta?”

 

“Please. Is she not eating?” Porthos says.

 

“She ate in the car, threw up in the car, stopped to eat at services, held us up for half an hour pretending feel car sick,” Flea says. “She’ll eat pasta at dinner time. Routine. Key to life.”

 

“Key to life,” Porthos agrees. “I’m starving.”

 

“He’s always starving,” Flea tells Elodie.

 

The baby Marie wakes up and Porthos get to meet her, a tiny little red-head, all fluff and big eyes. Porthos holds her while Elodie finishes eating, amusing her by flying her up above his head, then he eats pasta and cheese while Elodie feeds Marie.

 

“Do we get to meet mr dreamy?” Flea asks, Marie in the crook of one arm, milk-drunk now. “I never really got to do this with Rose.”

 

“Mr who?” Porthos says.

 

“Athos,” Elodie says. “I’m just happy you like it so much Flo. Means I get a break.”

 

“Uh,” Porthos says, suddenly thinking. “Are you both staying? Cus I was gonna put you in the livingroom, Flea, but… there’s just the one pull-out.”

 

“That’s fine,” Elodie says, smiling at Flea.

 

“Oh,” Porthos says. “Right. Um, Athos? I guess? You want to?”

 

“Obviously,” Flea says. “He’s all you tell me about this place. Other than the carpets. Wierdly obsessed about the carpets.”

 

Porthos goes to ring Athos. He sits on the floor watching Rose as he does so. She goes running to Flea now and then, to show something or tell something. Sometimes she gives Porthos guilty looks when she comes back and gives him a hug. Athos picks up eventually. Porthos remembers he’s at work at the pub.

 

“Sorry,” he says.

 

“You sound like shit,” Athos says. “They arrived?”

 

“Yeah. Brought her, um, gee eff,” Porthos says, eyes sliding to Rose where she’s lying on her back on the floor, beginning to get bored.

 

“Surprise,” Athos says. “What am I doing? Being reassuring? Being hilariously sarcastic? Being rude?”

 

“Coming over and bringing wine?” Porthos suggests.

 

“...” Athos says. Or rather doesn’t say. “Try Constance?”

 

Rose goes out and comes back with Elodie and Marie. She directs Elodie to put Marie on the floor then lies down and blows raspberries until Marie blows them back, then apportions out kisses as rewards and rolls around giggling.

 

“Ok I’ll come,” Athos says.

 

“Huh?” Porthos says. “Oh, Athos, sorry. Thanks.”

 

Athos brings Constance as well, and Porthos feels much better with his own new friends around him. Less alone. Seeing Flea hold a baby, though, makes his ears hot and his cheeks cold and something hard and angry in him spark and sizzle. He goes out the back and sits on the stool out there, trying to hold it in. Elodie comes and joins him, which is just a bad idea. Porthos tries politeness. she’s nice, and she just wants to tell him nice things about how much she’s seen of him in Rose and how great it was of him to take her. Porthos nods. Elodie looks at him for a long time, as if she wants to say something.

 

“What?” Porthos asks.

 

“Were you scared?” Elodie asks, which is pretty much the last thing he expected. He stares at her. “With Rose, when she was so tiny. Were you scared?”

 

“Every day,” Porthos says.

 

“It takes a lot of courage.”

 

“I think you’ve got plenty,” Porthos says, then grins a little ruefully. “Afterall you braved coming out here and talking to me, I’m a right grouchy bugger.”

 

“Flo and Rose worship the ground you walk on,” Elodie says. “You saved the world for them.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, looking down at the dug earth. After Charon died, after Porthos learnt more about what kind of man Charon had been growing into, he’d stuck his hand in the ground and nurtured, tried to make things grow. “I left her once.”

 

“What?”

 

“Rose. Took her to my Mum for the afternoon, got on a train, came out here. Treville used to bring me, I was going to… I dunno, run away and start again. I was so scared, I’ve never been so terrified in all my life.”

 

“What made you go back?”

 

“She needed me,” Porthos says. “And Flea needed me to be there for her. For Rose I mean. And my Mum needed me to take care of Rose she couldn’t take on another kid. Not at that point.”

 

“I met Florence when I was sat, just sitting on a park bench. I couldn’t stop crying. My husband died just after we… like the day after it must have been. I had just found out and it was too late to have options. I was so sure I couldn’t do it, that I’d be terrible at it. She taught me so much about being a mother,” Marie says. “She gives me courage and strength.”

 

“Flea’s the best woman I know,” Porthos says, resigned.

 

He can’t muster up much of anything. Elodie accepts it. She kisses his cheek and heads inside. Constance comes over and wraps around Porthos.

 

“I waited till she went,” Constance says. “Athos tells me I have to hug you. He’d do it himself but apparently he’s anxious about making a good impression on Flea and booking it in the middle of a conversation about Chaucer is not impressive.”

 

“Chaucer? She knows fuck all about Chaucer,” Porthos says. “Are you sure they’re not talking about the film A Knight’s Tale?”

 

“Oh. She might be,” Constance says. “Um, are you gonna cry or rage or something? Hugging you is less dramatic than expected.”

 

“I think I’m actually ok,” Porthos says. “No, I’m not, but I probably will be. I just couldn’t bear seeing her with a baby and listening to her talking about what she missed with Rose. Like it was the worst thing in the world. I tried so hard to give her that with Rose. Me and Rose tried so hard.”

 

He is going to cry afterall. He just remembers going to visit Flea and taking the baby in the sling on the hot London busses and sitting with Flea, helping her hold her child, helping her find some way to bond, some way to feel and just be with Rose even if only for a bit. He put so much energy and work and time and money into her relationship with Rose. It would have been so easy to adopt her and just start a life without Flea, he’d thought it important to do it this way. He cries in Constance’s arms, the tight anger at Flea for abandoning her child, the fear for himself and Rose, the exhaustion and drudgery and boredom of raising a child alone, the nights he cried alone into a pillow so Rose wouldn’t hear, the days and days and days all blended into one. Seeing Flea pick herself up, and fall, and pick herself up, her yelling at him. Trying over and over and never giving up on her, never giving up on her and Rose, never giving up on her finding her way back. He cries until he can’t, until he’s hoarse, until he hurts. Then Constance is replaced by Athos.

 

“I’ve got you,” Athos says. “I will keep you safe. You will be better soon.”

 

Porthos takes a shuddering breath that rattles his chest and hurts. Then another and another, hanging onto Athos’s forearms, looking into his calm, serious face, into his beautiful eyes. Athos presses their foreheads together as he calms and rambles idly about books. Flea comes out too and stands awkwardly. Porthos gets up and hugs her and she holds him tight, the first time in so long feeling like she’s supporting him.

 

“We’re going to be fine,” Porthos says.

 

“You’re angry. You should see a therapist,” Flea says. “I do. It’s so helpful.”

 

“Oh piss off,” Porthos says. “God I’m hungry.”

 

Athos laughs and goes to make them more pasta. Porthos really does have to shop.

 

***

 

“That was so dramatic,” Porthos murmurs, later, stroking over Athos’s naked shoulder and back.

 

Athos smiles. He’s sprawled on Porthos, Porthos on his back, in Athos’s bed. They came up here after dinner, leaving Flea and Elodie with the children. Athos isn’t sure he really does want children. One evening of two of them and he was ready to drop. Until Porthos had brought out Athos’s rope.

 

“I like dramatic,” Athos says, with relish. He can still feel the rope around him. “Hmm.”

 

“Oh my god you are hopeless,” Porthos says. “I meant earlier. With Flea. I was so dramatic.”

 

“You were fine. And dramatic,” Athos says. It had been a little dramatic. “I thought you were going to choke when you were crying.”

 

“It feels like grief,” Porthos says. “Charon wasn't good to her, Athos. He wasn't kind or gentle, respectful. He was angry and bitter and took it out on her, he was suspicious and... He took everything from her, died, and left her pregnant. She had to tell us, to explain to us why her grief for Charon… it tore her to bits. I went round one day to check on her and there was a baby. Rose. She was born and within three days, Flea was just gone. It took me weeks to find her.”

 

“God,” Athos says.

 

“I still don’t really know what she did. She just wanted to go. She couldn’t bear Rose, couldn’t bear me. Took us months to talk her into getting help. She was so good and brave and strong,” Porthos says. “She left Rose though. Three days old, just left her there to starve or cry herself out or… And then over the years there’s just been so much.”

 

“I can’t imagine,” Athos says. “My brother also... He assaulted my girlfriend before he died. She wasn’t a great woman, she was not kind to me. I probably wasn’t at my best around her either. But he did that to her and she made sure everybody knew about it. At the funeral. She chose her moments and was very loud about my lack of supporting her.”

 

“You know, when I was nineteen I was living in a bad situation, a flat with a couple who had these fights. His uncle was staying, I was making eggs. He wanted to show me how, I was doing it wrong. He wrapped his arms around me, hands on my breasts and my crotch, all over. I elbowed him in the wind-pipe. Fucker never tried that again,” Porthos says.

 

“Good,” Athos says. “Fucker. Porthos, I’m not sure I want children.”

 

“I’m not sure I do either. I loved Rose, you know? It was hard, but she made every moment worth it. Flea was hard work, the world was hard work, _work_ was hard work, but Rose was brilliant,” Porthos says. “I don’t think I could do it again though. That’s two babies I’ve looked after briefly, recent. I’d forgotten how much it _sucks_.”

 

“Thank god,” Athos says. “I might want them, I do feel it sometimes.”

 

“No plans?”

 

“No plans. No promises?”

 

“Just promise to tell me, if it hurts like it did Aramis.”

 

“Everything hurts him.”

 

“I’m doing it real slow and careful, I like him, I promise I will look out for him and care for him and do everything perfect.”

 

“Good,” Athos says. “I love the idiot.”

 

“I love you.”

 

“Too much talking,” Athos says. “Nap, or more of that rope. Hmm. Maybe?”

 

Porthos groans and gives a great, fake snore. Athos laughs and laughs, but lets Porthos nap. He lies on his back next to Porthos looking at the ceiling and thinking. About Thomas, and Anne, about Flea and Rose and Elodie. About Constance and Sylvie, about Aramis and d’Artagnan. Any children in this muddle of people are sure to get plenty of love, but he’s going to make sure that the burden of it is not solely on Prothos’s shoulders. He’ll protect Porthos, keep him safe. He hasn’t had anyone to protect in a long time.

 

“You said you love me,” Athos mumbles, looking at Porthos. Porthos just snores at him. Athos strokes his face. “I love you, too. Very much.”

 

He gets up and goes downstairs, to where Fleur has Sylvie and Constance around for drinks and some kind of marathon of Brooklyn 99, something about a bisexual character who they all love. Athos sits beside Sylvie and smiles at the fizz and heat between them. He told Porthos about this, asked permission from Sylvie to mention it. Told Porthos he was forbidden from telling him a thing. Porthos had been amused. Sylvie is much sharper lines than Porthos, so young and innocent in all kinds of ways but she doesn’t hold back ever, there’s no hesitation or checking herself. He feels reckless and joyful and insane with her, like they can just run and run and run. She kisses him, and kisses him again. He’s so glad she came back with Constance. 

***

 

Aramis watches Porthos’s friends leave and goes inside. He expects to be picking up some pieces, Athos had to go up to do a lecture and couldn’t be here and Constance and Sylvie had to be in London for something. Aramis is sole support system today. He finds Porthos whistling and pulling things out of cupboards, to make a cake apparently. He talks Aramis cheerfully through it and whirls about, happy and covered in flour. As he rushes past he plants floury kisses all over Aramis, he taste like sugar. Aramis catches him dipping his finger into it and laughs, catching Porthos as he passes, tugging and yanking and hanging on.

 

“I want you to do so many things to me,” Aramis whispers, their lips brushing they’re so close.

 

“Yes please,” Porthos whispers back. “Do them to me. Show me. Tell me. Anything.”

 

“Anything?”

 

“Anything.”

 

“Tell me?”

 

“Mmmm. I dream about you, sunlit. Naaaked. All different colours, dappled by the stained glass. In a church.”

 

“Porthos!”

 

Porthos gives a dirty little chuckle and kisses Aramis’s nose, so Aramis makes a determined effort to turn Porthos into a puddle. It’s goes pretty well - Porthos is responsive, moaning and moving into Aramis’s touch, and Aramis is good at finding sensitive places. He gets, finally, to lick the salt from Porthos’s skin, to suck a bruise into Porthos’s thigh, to lie between his legs. To kiss behind his knee and brush his hair against Porthos’s stomach, to sit in his lap, naked, and find the soft places, the give and breath of him, to hold his face and hold him and kiss him.

 

“Fuck’s sake,” Porthos groans, laid out on the sofa, so very naked. “Ara _mis._ ”

 

“I’ve got you,” Aramis says, under Porthos’s crooked knee, arm under his other leg, cheek against his thigh. Porthos growls.

 

Aramis takes pity and shifts, tasting him, mouth on him, feeling the tremble all through him. Porthos is gentle with Aramis, all his touches feel loving, feel like affection. He whispers all the wonderful things he thinks as he explores, all the compliments. Aramis rides the high of Porthos’s praise, glories in Porthos’s love of his body. Porthos whispers, holding Aramis as he comes, so many dirty, wonderful things. And then as Aramis relaxes he tells Aramis how much he cares, how much he loves, how much Aramis means to him.

 

“Oh shit, Porthos, you know the right fucking way to my heart,” Aramis says, voice hoarse with pleasure.

 

“I know lots of roads, I have learnt them,” Porthos whispers. “I have walked them with you, you have lead me. You’re the warmest, most welcoming, and so loving.”

 

“Thank you. I want to say nice things too but you have fritzed my brain,” Aramis says.

 

“Nap,” Porthos suggests.

 

Aramis laughs, but it turns out to be less a suggestion and more a demand. It’s nice, Porthos’s heavy body covering him. It feels safe. Aramis bites his lip thinking about what Porthos might tell Athos later, a gentle arousal making him warm, thinking about Athos reacting, Athos and Porthos together. This he likes; a fantasy life that he can share, that he can let himself wheel freely through, permission and consent eagerly given. He and Athos share secret smiles now, and a new kind of intimacy.

 

“You,” Aramis tells the sleeping duvet Porthos seems to have become, but then he stops. He doesn’t have words. Porthos it right: a nap is in order.

 

He does eventually find the words, but they are not his.

  


_“The world is charged with the grandeur of God._

_It will flame out,  like shining from shook foil;_

_It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil_

_Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?_

_Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;_

_And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with_

_toil;_

_And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell:_

_the soil_

_Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod._

 

_And for all this, nature is never spent;_

_There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;_

_And though the last lights off the black West went_

_Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward,_

_springs—_

_Because the Holy Ghost over the bent_

_World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright_

_wings.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: assault in past, non consensual situations in past (athos and porthos talk about experiences), Thomas assaulted Milady in the past as per canon, Charon abused Flea, elodies husband died like in canon, porthos found raising rose hard sometimes and once left her at his mums to run away but he went right back cus he's brave, Flea left rose when rose was three days old only
> 
> oh and the poem is Gerard Manly Hopkins but when is it not, lol, I love the misogynist, what can you do he write lovely. um it's something something god, it's super famous... God's Grandeur thanks google.

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: I haven't got an exhaustive list, specifics will be on chapters. But: child abandonment, wanting children, missing people, separating from family in painful but healthy (I think) ways, grief, panic, athos proably drinks too much (when doesnt he), and Charon is abusive toward flea in the past (he is dead as in canon), and Thomas is as in canon (athos's bro who assaults Milady. ALLEGEDLY yeah fine what-the-fuck-ever, well done show for discrediting and blaming victims that was GREAT).


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